HAVEN
by vyrastra
Summary: Dark deeds stir: after the Second War, Hogwarts is closed and it's a brave new world. The students who survived must make up their lost year in an unlikely place, racing to confront what divided them before. (REBOOT: Post-DH Dramione epic, with Pottermore, sans Epilogue; maximum resolution of loose ends from canon.)
1. Old Beginnings

_No house-elves, grumkins, or imaginations were harmed in the production of this chapter. All rights go to J.K. Rowling, as ever.  
Image based from hesavampire on deviantArt._

_._

HAVEN

**Chapter 1: Old Beginnings**

**_Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, June 1989_**

Action held panic at bay, Hermione told herself, and so did knowledge. In her head she repeated the things she knew. The grass she is walking through is probably Meadow Brome, with its tiny yellow and red flowers. The temperature can drop more than ten degrees centigrade after the sun goes down on the Plain. The Plain is nearly 800 square kilometers, or about 300 square miles, and sparsely populated. She is lost.

She'd fallen through that strange door and tumbled down a hill, and by the time she climbed back up there was no sign of the portal she'd come through. Dusk was coming on now, and she was only wearing a shirt and grey shift dress—wool, but rather thin. Her throat and eyes felt parched, her stomach was light, and her shoes were chafing. She squinted toward the horizon, but found no signs toward which to aim.

Again she wished she had not stopped to wonder at that door in the Potterne village pub. Driving back from a week's sightseeing in Salisbury, Stonehenge, and Marlborough, the Grangers had stopped for lunch at one "George and Dragon," a rosy old thatched brick building with cheery pots of flowers dangling from the beams. It was an odd but charming little place. The proprietor wouldn't stop mumbling strange words to himself as he walked about the main room. Hermione had a very large vocabulary for her age, eight going on nine, and even she had never met an adult who used so many words she didn't recognize.

On her way back from the loo, at the end of a curiously twisting hallway, she had noticed a little alcove with a black door and strange, gold, rune-like lettering, which through some trick of the light looked as if it were moving—though of course Hermione knew it could not. She felt her heart beat wildly as she stared at it. Forgetting everything else, she reached toward it, fascinated and apprehensive at the same time. Just one look, Hermione had told herself, for she didn't think she ought to make a habit of opening strange doors.

The knob was warm under her hand, she remembered, and next—she couldn't clearly recall anything else. There it was, her hand on the doorknob, then suddenly the world seemed to whoosh dizzily by. Finally she had tumbled out onto the heath. Perhaps she'd fainted, while falling through a tunneled passageway to the open countryside, beyond the village?

But where was the tunnel entrance? When Hermione had finally reached the top of the hill, she thought she must have had the wrong one; there was no passage was anywhere to be found. All around was only the gentle sloping of the chalk downs, veiled in a soft cover of grass and shrub and extending endlessly in every direction. She had scrambled up two more slopes nearby to check, fruitlessly; then for a half hour after, she had wandered purposeful but directionless. She needed—she must—find something, some landmark or indication of a path, no matter where so long as it took her somewhere warm and inhabited, where she could try to call an officer, or home.

In the sky, brilliant sunset colors were slowly washing out to the more sedate shades of early evening. The heads of the heather bowed slightly as a wind rippled across the plain in a trail of purple. It was desolate, beautiful.

"Hello?" she called out. The rising wind carried her voice from her. She tried again, downwind. "Hello? Is anyone there?" For a moment she thought she heard something, and then it was gone again. She had probably imagined it, she told herself.

Part of her wanted to cry, though she knew she was much too old for that. Nothing made sense. Logically—logically, even if the portal were hidden, she should have stayed put, not go farther from where she had first come out. And yet there was something _wrong_ about logic now, she just felt it somehow. "Hello! I'm lost!" she tried again, as loudly as she could. "Hello, anyone?"

A rustle from behind made her heart leap into her throat. In an instant her wish to be found disappeared, replaced by all the warnings she'd heard before—so many things that could go wrong, when you met a stranger in a deserted place.

A shock of very blond hair popped up over the crest of the hill. It was a boy, about her age. She was taken aback.

"Merlin, where'd you come from?" he said, rather rudely.

She gaped for a moment. "Well, _Merlin_, yourself!" she recovered. What an odd thing to say! Was he role-playing? Was she to act the part of Merlin?

He was staring at her and it was making her uncomfortable. "So… I take it you like King Arthur, then?" she ventured after a moment. He was her age, so at least he didn't seem likely to kill her. Though you could never be sure, in a place like this.

He gave her a look. "Of course not. Arthur was nothing without Merlin. He's _much_ better."

Hermione sighed in irritation. She had meant the King Arthur _tales_, of course, the whole magical lore of it—but he had evidently taken her literally, and panned her again. Clever.

The boy was about her size, with pale skin and very fine features, and eyes as grey as the color of her dress. His trousers, covered with bits of thistle and oat-grass, had a chalky stain on one side and a frayed gash, but Hermione could tell that they were rather nice—much too nice, in fact, for a boy to play around the heath in, she thought privately. He wore a plain buttoned shirt, slightly less dirty but no less fine.

He also had a rather superior air about him, which Hermione knew and appreciated. In school they may have called her a know-it-all and a snob, but that was just because she knew better than them all (and they refused to be educated). Still, the boy standing across from her knew a thing or two about the Round Table, which was more than she could say for most!

Suddenly she wanted very much to impress him.

"Well, that may be true. But I think Morgan le Fay was better than all of them," she said haughtily.

He nodded appreciatively. "That's a good one. Mother always preferred Morgana."

"Your parents talk about Merlin stories with you?" She couldn't keep the envy out of her voice.

He looked at her, perplexed as before. "Yes, of course. Why, don't yours?"

"No, they're not really interested," she said. "I suppose they think it's silly." She noticed his sudden frown with alarm, and hastily went on. "But of course that doesn't stop me; I've read all the books about them that I find at the library, and I think I know quite a lot now!"

He still looked suspicious.

"It's just—well, you know, we're sort of a rare breed these days, aren't we?" she said desperately. "Nobody's interested in the old myths and legends anymore, it's all _modern_ this and _new_ that," she said, babbling, "and meanwhile all the treasures of the past are being neglected and forgotten—like the Greek gods—"

"That's _so true_," the boy broke in suddenly, emphatic. The doubt had been replaced by frustration and relief. "Our kind have a rough time of it, don't we?" He sighed gustily and kicked a clump of grass. "Say, what were you doing out here, anyway?"

Hermione reddened. "Oh, nothing. I was just… Well, I... got lost. My parents and I—we had just been down to Stonehenge, you know, and that was fun—"

"Stonehenge is fantastic," broke in the boy. "Isn't it the best? You should see it at midsummer. We have to go under a charm then, of course, because all the stupid Muggles swarm around, gawking like they don't understand a thing—"

Hermione had never heard of a Muggle before. She was very good at guessing meanings from context, though, and was willing to bet that he meant those extra-irritating tourists—particularly the Americans, they were the worst—who stood around with their big shirts and grunted as they listened to their loud and poorly-informed tour guides, instead of just reading a book about it and enjoying in silence like any normal person would.

"Oh yes, they're just awful," she agreed quickly. "But it was very quiet when we were there, almost nobody else around. Well, and anyway, they were looking at summer homes in the area, and on the way back we stopped for a bite a pub in a village not far from here—Potterne, I think it was called—and I saw this little hallway with door at the end and then…" she trailed off, not knowing how to explain the rest of it

"Was it black, with gold lettering?" said the boy, keenly interested.

Hermione was surprised. "Well, yes," she said. "I was just going to take a single look," she said rather anxiously. "But then it just…something…_pulled_me, I suppose, and I then fell down a hill and now I can't get back." She bit her lip. "My parents will be so worried!"

"Oh, it will be all right," said the boy with a great deal of self-assurance. "Old Borkel at the George and Dragon will set them straight. Potterne's filled with these little secret passages, of course. You know, like a permanent Portkey. People disappear there all the time," he said, as if that made it all right. He gave her an appraising look. "Here, you'd better come with me. You can take our Floo back to the pub, all right? The door you came by only goes the one direction, sorry."

Portkey? And Hermione didn't know what a Floo was, either. She thought it sounded like a very fancy car. But either way, everything was going be all right, she gathered—that was the important bit. "Thank you," she said very sincerely.

It occurred to her she didn't know his name. "Oh—I'm Hermione, by the way," she said, blushing slightly and sticking out her hand. Any of the children in her primary school would have laughed at how formal and adult it seemed. But _they_ were grown-ups, both she and the boy, weren't they?

"You're welcome," he said gallantly, a spot of pink rising on his cheeks as he puffed up with pride at her gratitude. As she'd expected, he shook her hand as if it were quite normal to do so. "I'm Draco. Draco _Malfoy_," he said significantly, watching her with an expectant look.

He seemed as though he expected her to be very impressed, Hermione realized. Surely he wasn't nobility or something? She didn't recognize the name from any of the great houses they had visited around the area. She tried to remember what to say in case of addressing gentry. "Um, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said, settling on something neutral and not over-the-top.

He gave her a confident nod, so it must have been all right. "And I you. Who are your people, by the way? You didn't say."

"My…people?"

"Yes, your parents?" he said, impatient.

"Oh! Helen Elizabeth Grey and William Russell Watson Granger," she said quickly, including all their middle names lest their well-to-do, solidly middle class respectability didn't come through. Dentistry, though, she left out of it.

"Granger," he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue as if tasting it. "I hadn't heard of them before."

"They, um, keep mostly to themselves. We're not from around here, we live just outside London."

"Oh." He paused. "Well, I'm glad to meet you now," he said gallantly. "Malfoy Manor is that way." Draco pointed south. "We're not far, but it is a little walk. You're all right?"

"Thanks, I'll manage," she said.

He glanced at her again as they started down the hill. "If only my broom weren't broken," he said with a show of carelessness. "Father sent it away for repairs. I flew it into a tree last week."

Hermione gasped and giggled, stumbling over a rock. Flying brooms, indeed! Whatever Draco was, he was a master pretender. And for once, it was _fun_. Much better than make-believe House, or Doctors. "Oh, that's terrible! I'm so sorry. Was it a nice one?"

"Very," said Draco, "a Nimbus 1500, specially modified to suit junior flyers," he said smugly. "Father knows the company's President, you know."

That did it, this was definitely some aristocratic scion or other, thought Hermione, her heart rather racing a bit. His parents sounded _extremely_ indulgent. She felt both embarrassed and glad around him—everyone at school was rather awful to her, when they noticed her at all, but he seemed to be both clever and of some importance, and theywere getting on all right! She'd guessed before that he was probably one of those people who had a "set," too, and who didn't fraternize with those who weren't rich or important—or intelligent—enough for it. It made her feel a little flattered that he'd decided she was okay, when usually that didn't happen—but also a bit uncomfortable and annoyed at the same time, that he might be such a snob. Well, she didn't care. It certainly didn't make him any better than her, and he'd better not think otherwise!

She had not replied to his statement about the broom company president, and it appeared to bother him. "What, so you don't like flying?" he said rather accusatorily.

"No—well, I've never been," she amended, as he grew more disbelieving every second, "I mean—I'm afraid of heights."

"Oh." That seemed to set him down again. "That's pretty inconvenient."

Was it? She wasn't usually bothered, unless she had to walk over suspension bridges or look off edges of tall buildings or something. "I guess I get by all right."

"_I_ could teach you to fly," he said suddenly, leaning in conspiratorially. "I'm great at it. Father says I'll be a fantastic Quidditch player. He was a Chaser, but I'll be Seeker, see, because that's the most important role on the team. I'll play for the Slytherin team once we get to Hogwarts." He stopped. "Say, you _are_ going to Hogwarts in a few years?"

"Come again?" Some sort of school, or camp? This was more than her contextual guessing could handle.

"Hogwarts," he said impatiently. "Where will you be starting your magical education, Hogwarts or another school? Don't say Beauxbatons, the food is good but I've heard the courseload is terrible."

"Oh! I—I'm not sure," she said. "Erm, I think there's a place in—Scotland, that my parents have been talking about, but I haven't been paying much attention, to be honest," she said hastily. Scotland seemed like an appropriately creepy-magicky place, with all those lochs and dour woods, she guessed.

"Oh, if it's in Scotland it's definitely Hogwarts," said Draco easily. "That's brilliant. I bet you'll be in my year, right? Can't vouch for it if you're Sorted into another house, but if you're in Slytherin, I'll make sure you're taken care of," he said grandly.

"Thanks," she said faintly. "Er, about Slytherin…" That was twice he'd mentioned the name. It sounded rather sinister.

"Yes, most of the pureblood families end up there," he said. "Of course, the best generally _always_ do. We Malfoys have been Slytherin for as long as any can remember, for instance," he said proudly. "But I guess you could be a Ravenclaw, too; I could see that. I bet you think you're pretty clever," he said, grinning.

Hermione immediately bristled. "What do you mean by that? Just because I read books and—and admire Morgan le Fay—"

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist," he said, still smiling.

Hermione blushed. She'd heard and read worse before, but the line was still rather too mature for their age, wasn't it?

Draco seemed completely unperturbed. "Oh, I'm just teasing. Look, you're as clever as I am," he said. "I only meant it as a compliment. Most other purebloods our age are pretty boring, you know, dull, that lot. Crabbe, Goyle—solid blokes, good Quidditch beaters you know, but not too bright. Teddy Nott is better, but he doesn't have any imagination."

"I see," said Hermione, trying not be bothered by the onslaught of curious phrases—_quidditch_, _pureblood, beaters_. Was that how they called their set? But she could see how a lack of imagination would bother Draco—he did have so much of it. Well, she did too.

He mimed a fencer's lunge at her and she laughed, rolling her eyes and looking away, before she caught sight of something. "Wait! Draco, stop," she said, pointing to a cluster of posts in the distance. "We can't go this way, the signs—"

He looked where she pointed. They were a strangely-typeset cluster, proclaiming redundantly, "Warning, Keep Out, Dangerous, No Trespassing," and finally, at the bottom, "Military Exercise Zone—Exercise Caution—It May Explode." It appeared to bear the mark of the Ministry of Defence.

"Oh, that. That's just a sign we put up to keep Muggles out, in case any make it past the Disillusionment wards," he said. "The real Muggle military grounds begin quite a ways south of here." He gave the sign a flick and walked past it breezily.

"Oh," said Hermione, feeling rather foolish and off-balance. Draco's family seemed to have quite a problem with those fat American tourists, which she wouldn't have imagined being a problem out here. She changed the subject to cover up her discomfort.

"So have you been to Savernake Forest? It's rather close to where we are, isn't it?"

"Of course," Draco said. "We have a lodge there. Nice spot." He nodded sharply. "And the Muggles tend to avoid the area because they all think it's haunted."

Muggles again! She had to one-up him somehow."Well, when I was there I saw a unicorn," she said, totally serious. So he appreciated imagination—well, she had that one in the bag. "I don't suppose you've seen one yourself?"

He flushed. "Only girls see unicorns."

She could tell she had troubled him and she felt a rush of glee. It was impossible not to press the advantage. "That's not true and you know it! Any person of good intentions and pure of heart can find one," she said, "though it's true they might be more drawn to young maidens." That was how the old tales had it, right?

He scoffed. "All right, so you saw one. Then what?"

Hermione took a breath to buy time. What could she say? "Well, it was very gentle to me. It came quite close—it laid its horn on my shoulder—and I felt filled with a—a kind of light." She snuck a glance over at Draco. He had a rather sour expression on his face that she assumed was envy. "You should try it sometime. I bet they'd come right up to you if you went looking for them. I mean, you do own some of the forest, after all," she said, as a sort of peace offering.

"I guess they would," he said grudgingly. "I'll keep an eye out for them next time we're there." But he didn't speak much after that.

It was the price of her small moment of superiority, Hermione realized. So that was his flaw—he didn't very well take to being outshone. Still, she didn't mind the quiet too much. With Draco to lead her out, she would soon be back with her parents, a certainty finally let her enjoy the wild beauty of the heath, and the thought of the warm (and probably rather grand) Manor waiting for them not far ahead.

She looked over at the blond boy again. They had so much in common—she was sure they could be friends in spite of her little win. He had seemed too lonely for the kind of company she brought—flights of fancy, clever banter. In any case, it had done her confidence good to show up the boy—even just for a moment, even it had made him withdraw a bit.

She supposed he probably didn't have to put up with challenges from too many of his "pureblood" friends. It seemed like his family was the oldest and most powerful of their group, and that must have extended to how his fellows treated him, too. Well, Hermione didn't care. She was a challenge, no matter whom she was with, she thought smugly, whether she was of their set or not. And nobody, not even the son of an Earl, could be better than she at imagining fantastic stories and magical civilizations and creatures. Draco would grow to appreciate her for that, she felt sure.

He stopped walking suddenly and Hermione did too. Just over the crest of the hill lay a beautiful house, very large, and very grand, just as she'd guessed.

"Well, what do you think?" he said finally.

"It's incredible," said Hermione, completely sincere. Even from afar, the grass seemed greener, the water more jewel-like than any of the great houses she'd visited, and in the garden the colors of the flowers could still be seen because they were illuminated by a dancing, sparkling web of what looked like tiny floating lights. How had they done that? There were larger and grander estates, Hermione knew, but Draco's home put all the other great houses she had toured to shame. "Oh, you're so lucky! It's wonderful. I've never seen anything like it."

He seemed pleased at that, and the atmosphere between the two felt noticeably lighter as they continued down toward the Manor.

"It'll be time for supper soon," said Draco as they approached the house. They were passing through the vast, perfectly manicured gardens that opened onto the heath, approaching by the back way. "It'll be simple, of course, we're not expecting anyone. Perhaps you could join us," he said graciously.

"I would be delighted to," said Hermione. It was all she could do not to blush. "But my parents must be worried—"

"Well, they can join us too," said Draco dismissively. "I'm sure Mother and Father won't mind. They're always open to meeting intelligent, well-bred people. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they knew each other already, a little. The Pureblood circle isn't that large."

Pureblood again! Whatever she was, it was probably not that. Hermione stayed silent, abashed, and slightly worried. She would have to find some way to get back to her parents before he understood that she was not entirely what he assumed.

A shrill screech suddenly disturbed the calm of the garden, and Hermione looked around, startled.

"That's nothing, just the peacocks," said Draco.

Just then one stepped into the path before them. The bird was snowy white all over, with a silvery-blue crest and golden beak and feet. "Oh, it's lovely!" she said sincerely, but it opened its mouth and shrieked at her again, and Hermione took a step back. "Um, I don't think it likes me," she said, as it advanced on her, beak strained open.

"Nonsense. Don't be stupid," said Draco. Hermione wasn't sure whether it was addressed to the bird or to herself.

"Go on, shoo, you fat snowball," continued Draco, faking a kick in its direction so it fluffed its feathers in alarm. The bird, affronted, drew itself up and stalked off the path.

"Thanks," said Hermione.

"No problem," said Draco, puffing up a little again. "They're trained to ward against intruders so I guess they get a little cranky sometimes. Not bad once they get used to you."

Along the path a number of wrought iron gates had swung open as they passed, as if by magic. Well, Hermione didn't put it past these Malfoys to have the very latest in motion detection technology. She had felt a strange buzz as she passed through each portal—some sort of scanner, too? They passed another fountain pool, and stood before the house.

"Mother?" called Draco, his voice echoing down the long portico as he stepped off the grass. Hermione trailed cautiously behind him. He pushed open the doors at one end and entered, Hermione following closely. "I'm back, Mum. I found a witch my age lost on the heath," he said. "She says she'll stay for dinner."

Witch? Really, did he continue his role-playing with his parents, too? It was really getting a bit much.

Suddenly a soft snap came from behind her. Hermione whirled around almost screamed.

Draco felt her start and turned too. "Oh, hello, Nobby," he said. "Where's Mother?"

"Mistress Narcissa is to be finishing her toilette for supper," said the small, wrinkled creature who had given Hermione a fright. "She sends apologies for running late. Master Draco will be getting ready soon, too?" it said, wringing its long knobbly hands anxiously.

Of course, thought Hermione, old families still did things like dress for supper! She had forgotten. She looked down at her plain smock dress with a pang of worry. Well, she didn't plan to stay for that anyway.

"In a second, it can wait," Draco was saying to the small wrinkled creature, "can't you see I've got a guest, Nobby?"

"Oh, go on, Draco, I'll be fine," she said hurriedly. It wouldn't do to get Draco in trouble for tardiness. "I'll just, erm, wait. And it's so kind of you but I really don't think I should stay for supper—I just have to be getting back to my parents," she said. "Could I please just call the George and Dragon?"

"Well, all right, if you insist. Father does get irritated when I'm late," he said. "I'll just leave you in Mother's sitting room, then? She can sort you out with your parents, and all that."

Hermione felt a sudden apprehension. Another—probably odd—person she hadn't met, and without the one she came with to introduce her! "Thanks. That will be fine," she said again bravely. Draco gave her a dubious look, but left her.

She remained in the center of the hall, with the small creature beside her. It felt her gaze upon it and bowed deeply. "Nobby is Master Draco's house elf, Miss. Nobby may have honor of escorting Master Draco's guest to Mistress Narcissa's sitting room?" it said patiently, when she didn't budge.

"All right," said Hermione. She had given up on figuring out how any of this worked. She watched in fascination as the house elf stepped nimbly over to her despite its apparent age, seizing a fistful of her gown.

She heard a pop, felt a lurch—and she could only describe what happened next as a dark blur—as the room around her changed completely, to what was obviously a very ornate lady's sitting room. The creature (which, honest, really didn't look human, not even like a very short one) let go of Hermione's dress. "Nobby will be bringing a tray of tea for Miss," it said graciously. Then snapped its fingers and disappeared.

Hermione sat down heavily on one side of an extremely beautiful couch, bewildered. This was all far beyond eccentric. The "elf," the rooms, the disappearing! What could it all mean?

She was still working out ways to explain what had happened—hallucinatory drugs? drugs that knocked her out while she was transported from one place to the next, or while the elf disappeared, or—? when suddenly a high, gilded white door opened at the far side of the room and a woman who could only have been Draco's mother entered.

She was tall, with the same delicate features and fine blonde hair that Draco had, but she had an immediately intimidating presence about her that was utterly unlike anything Hermione had before experienced. Definitely related to royalty, Hermione thought apprehensively. There was _far_too much haughtiness for it to be anything but.

But the woman's expression softened a bit when she saw Hermione perched stiffly on the edge of the settee, and she smiled not unkindly.

"Well. Hello there," she said, crossing the room. She managed to sound kindly and bored all at once.

Hermione immediately rose to her feet. "Mrs. Malfoy," she managed, ducking her head. "I'm—I'm extremely sorry to intrude on you—"

The woman waited for her to finish but it became apparent that Hermione had just stopped in the middle of her sentence. "Nonsense, child. Nobby told me that Draco said you were a friend. He ran into you on the heath?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Hermione, resorting to formalities to hide her uncertainty—"But I didn't mean to—I mean, I was lost, and he was the only person I found—" Again she trailed off.

"Of course. It's a very quiet area," said the woman. "That _is_ why we like it so much."

Nobby reappeared with a silver tea tray and set it down, making to pour the tea. Hermione watched nervously as Narcissa stopped the elf, reached over to pick up the delicate porcelain pot, and poured a cup of tea herself and handed it to the young girl.

Hermione accepted it gratefully, having never known that such a simple gesture could be so elegant. The house elf scurried over to offer cream and sugar, but Hermione was much too nervous to do anything but decline politely. She sipped urgently at the hot tea, inhaling the fragrance and thankful for some liquid, finally, to slake her rather awful thirst.

"Thank you, Nobby," said Narcissa, accepting her own cup of tea—one sugar, with lemon, Hermione noted, a combination which suddenly seemed impossibly sophisticated—from the house elf, rather than pouring her own. "Now, dear. Draco said you'll be staying for dinner."

Hermione lowered her cup so quickly it rattled in the saucer. "Oh! I, no, I mean—Draco offered," she said, blushing hotly; she may have fooled Draco but surely his mother saw right through her! "It's very kind of him, but I just couldn't impose. I mean I have already—"

"Oh, but not at all," replied Narcissa calmly. "Are you quite sure? We always enjoy Draco's friends…"

"It's just that my parents will be terribly worried," said Hermione, forgetting her manners and interrupting in her haste. "It's been hours, I'm sure, and they haven't any way to get in touch with me. Oh! Do you have a phone?" she burst out, suddenly remembering.

Narcissa gave her an odd look. "Excuse me?"

"A phone, to call the George and Dragon, over in Potterne," said Hermione desperately. "Oh, do you have their number? I knew I should have written it down…"

Narcissa was staring at her with what looked like total incomprehension. What, did the gentry not have phones? Surely not, all the stately houses had them! Albeit sometimes in the museum quarters.

"Calm down, child. We'll find your parents." Something flickered for a moment in Narcissa's eyes. "And what did you say your name was?"

"Hermione," she said, "and my parents are William and Helen Granger, address 19 Thurlowe Street, South Kensington, London, if that helps; we were in Potterne on holiday," she said, all in a rush.

"Potterne," said Narcissa after a moment, fixing on that. "The George and Dragon, you said. That's where your parents are?"

"It's where we stopped to have lunch," said Hermione miserably. "They were looking into buying a place in the village, we all liked it so much…"

"I see," said Narcissa. She set down her tea. "Well, Miss Granger, it has been a delight. I agree with you to worry about your parents, however. It seems to me that with the excitement of the day perhaps we would do better to send you home. Much as we would all rather have you stay."

Hermione nodded dumbly. She sensed that the woman had understood everything—of course. Well, it didn't matter now, even if she would probably never see Draco again. If she could just be returned home safely! After her deception of them, Hermione was not sure. The family was so very odd! And wasn't there a law against impersonation?

"Please excuse me, then," said Narcissa, rising gracefully, apparently immune to Hermione's increasingly panicked expression. "Miss Granger, Nobby will stay here with you in the meantime."

Out of a hidden pocket in her dress Narcissa drew out a long, finely carved piece of wood and raised it, stepping toward Hermione. "Now, there's just one thing. This won't hurt at all, I promise—just a moment—"

The teacups on the table all shattered as Hermione leaped up from the couch.

"Oh no, please, Mrs. Malfoy, I'm so sorry! I swear I didn't mean to deceive anyone," she said, almost in tears. "Only you were all so kind, and I didn't know how to get home—after I went through the door and it disappeared, I didn't know—"

For a moment the blonde woman stared open-mouthed at the scene before her. "Miss Granger!"

Hermione stopped talking and suddenly registered the porcelain shards scattered all around her. Oh, no, _it_ had happened again… She thought it had gone away, it had been so long since the last time… But now—_here_—she could have wept.

As they both watched, another saucer wobbled on the table, lifted until it was level with Hermione's head, and neatly split into ten or twenty little pieces, all of them stopping in a contained sphere of suspended fragments about ten centimeters from where the saucer had originally lain. Hermione let out a sob.

"Oh my," said Narcissa again, eyeing the shards as they slowly sank back to the table. She raised her head and gave Hermione a hard look.

"Don't say a word. Don't feel bad. It is not your fault," Narcissa said crisply, not breaking eye contact.

"Now, Nobby, clean this up. Make sure nothing...untoward happens to Miss Granger." There was a loud crack, and then woman had disappeared from the room.

Hermione pressed herself into the corner of the settee, trying heroically not to give in to further tears.

"It's hopeless," she said miserably, when she was sure Narcissa had gone.

The grandest—and perhaps the most fascinatingly and charmingly eccentric—family she had ever met now thought she was a lunatic, too—a weird freak, just like everyone else. Well, just as long as they returned her to her parents, instead of institutionalizing her!

Nobby gazed at her compassionately, but seemed unruffled. "Not so, Miss Hermione. This sort of thing happens too to Master Draco. Happens often."

"What?" Hermione stopped.

"All the wizarding children," said the house elf complacently. "It is normal signs of magic."

"I don't understand," said Hermione, eyes wide.

"Miss Hermione must be patient," said the house elf, snapping her fingers and pointing at the neat circle of saucer shards. "Nobby cannot explain. Soon Miss Hermione will understand."

Hermione rubbed her eyes. No, it was still there—the saucer, with nary a mark to show for its recent excitement.

With growing amazement, she saw the two teacups restored as well.

What was _in_ that tea?

Finished, Nobby turned toward the girl. "You must rest now, Miss Hermione," said the elf.

It had unbelievably large eyes, Hermione thought, but it wasn't nocturnal—what could possibly be the evolutionary rationale of that? Her mind felt like molasses.

She heard a soft _snap_, and then nothing.

She awoke with a start in an unfamiliar bed.

"Mum! Dad!" She sat straight up.

Both parents were in the room—her father in an overstuffed wingchair, lowering a newspaper, and her mother sitting beside her bed. "Oh good, she's awake," said her father, with a joking manner, but Hermione heard the relief beneath it.

"It's all right, dear," said her mother, bending over her and stroking back a wayward curl. "We've found you, now, all right? It's still early. Just rest."

But Hermione couldn't. "Where are we?" She twisted in bed, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

"We decided to stay the night at the George and Dragon," said her mother. "You were so tired when you came back, we had to—oh, Hermione, if you hadn't gone wandering off like that!"

"Indeed, Pumpkin," said her father gruffly. "We had half the village out searching for you."

"Which still wasn't very much," said her mother, laughingly, but with tears in her eyes that Hermione could see.

"I'm sorry… I promise I won't wander off again," said Hermione sincerely as her mother kissed her forehead. "But what happened?"

"Oh, dear, don't you remember any of it? They found you wandering alone outside the village, out in Salisbury Plains! God only knows how you got out there," her mother said finally.

"Oh," said Hermione, relieved and oddly disappointed all at once.

"It was a woman—she found you when she was out there walking her dog," said her father, coming to stand by the bed. "Noddy, I think its name was."

"Nobby," confirmed her mother. "Though, honestly, William, you don't _really_ think she was walking her dog, do you? That dress she had on? It looked like an evening gown," she said.

"It was rather strange," admitted her father. "Still, there's odd folk around here. Country recluses and so on. Anyway, all that matters was that she was well-meaning. She contacted the proprietor here—"

"Borkel," broke in Hermione.

"Yes, Mr. Borkel. How did you know?" said her mother curiously. "Well anyway, she found you out on the heath and told Mr. Borkel to get us, and then he drove us out to get _you_—you were perilously close to the beginning of the military area, you know," she said reproachfully, "and you seemed half-asleep at the time. She was just standing out there, with you, that strange woman," said Helen, "with the evening about to fall. But it was very good of her to wait," she finished. "It must have been rather terrifying alone."

"We didn't catch her name," added Hermione's father, "so we can't even thank her. Imagine that!"

Imagine indeed, thought Hermione.

It would be the last time she let her dreams and her runaway imagination get the better of her, she decided, after they had finished breakfast and piled into the car for the drive home.

What a lot of very strange dreams she'd had after she was recovered last night. She was fairly certain the woman her parents spoke of was Narcissa—"evening gown" was a dead giveaway—but what could she make of the rest of it? The boy, the magic school, the house elf? The teacups? She remembered it all so clearly—too clearly—in her mind. It had just felt so very real.

Back home it was easier to forget about it. Occasionally Hermione would see it again in dreams—the boy, the heath, the sparkling gardens. But the difference was vast between the ages of eight-almost-nine, and ten-almost-eleven.

The world made a different kind of sense after just two years. Hermione switched to a new primary school, where she was moderately happier. The odd things had stopped happening.

And then, in August, she received the Hogwarts letter.

-end chapter 1-

**Author's Note**

_Unlike all the later chapters, which pick right where Deathly Hallows left off, this chapter is set unusually far back in time-it's just meant to provide a backdrop to make the Dramione relationship in later events a little richer and more interesting. (Try revisiting the famous Draco Punch Scene with this in mind.) __If you're confused about this chapter, read the Q&A explanations at _magpiesmischief. tumblr 46807325343/ch1-what-really-happened-to-hermione_(just add the HTTP-colon-slash-slash to the web address first, and remove the spaces; the password is MMWPP)._

Dear reader, if you followed HAVEN back in the old days (under "trieste"), thanks to you for that, and glad to see you're still in the fandom. If not, thanks for giving this a shot now. I'd abandoned the original story for a number of reasons: life, losing my story notes, Deathly Hallows proving all my theories right. Epilogue. Less time, more responsibilities, the usual. I come back to it now for totally different reasons. It took six years, but I finally learned how to write—and how to do it without letting it overtake my IRL existence. Real life is pretty full and busy and takes a lot of energy. Especially once you've become an adult. But this story's still in my head, and the characters—to my surprise—still in my heart. With Pottermore around these days (and even summarized in archive for those, like me, who are too lazy to play), I struck an old vein of inspiration. Once I started researching—the Harry Potter world, but also our world, with its rich web of myth and mystery—it wouldn't let me go. I hope you'll find it compelling, too.

HAVEN has always been research- and character-driven, somewhere at the intersection of the real and imagined worlds. If you want to follow along, I keep a tumblr with all the cool background stuff I find. At **anothermagpie** dot **tumblr** dot **com**, click "Mischief" at the top-and you know what to do from there! (Password: MMWPP.) Password will change from time to time, so check my author page for the latest one if it's not working.) PM me if you still have problems.

If you liked this, please leave a note below! I'll write faster. :) Any and all corrections, suggestions, will be appreciated.


	2. TBA Chapter 2

Argh! Placeholder. Sorry, I didn't realize that deleting my chapters was going to mess up the old reviews. Sit tight until the next update in a week, please!

Thanks for your patience. Check out the tumblr if you're bored, I promise it's got good (and entirely too nerdy) stuff.

V


	3. TBA Chapter 3

HAVEN

**-**

Chapter 6: A Nasty Surprise

-

Tuesday morning saw a flurry of owls in the Headmistress' office; she had taken to eating alone there for the past few weeks and owls had come there to find her. But McGonagall's attention stayed with only one of the group – an imported Great Horned, bowing pompously and bearing a scroll of an elegant silvery green.

_Monday, the twenty-eighth of July._

_My Dearest Minerva,_

_I have indeed secured a patron for the operation, and with no small degree of work, either. However, 'anything for the mistress of Hogwarts,' as I _always_ say, and I must assure you that it was my sincerest and dearest pleasure to be of aid…_

_The patron himself prefers to remain unnamed; I feared to press him further for, as I'm sure you know, my associates tend to be of more… _ascendant_ motives. In this particular case, _if_ my patron receives some great benefit from his actions, it is in his best interests to hide this fact; _if_ my patron does it out of the supposed goodness of his heart, he must hide this as well, or his business partners will assume that he is going soft, in the chance that word were to get out. Thusly, I assured him that the both of us are indeed perfectly understanding of his sad dilemma, and I trust that the simple matter of anonymity will not be a problem. Simply pass on the expenses to me, and I shall relay them to our most generous benefactor._

_The list of students that I will be inviting is not available at the present time, for which inconvenience I proceed to offer the _humblest_ of heartfelt apologies. The choice, you see, is far too difficult to be so quickly, capriciously made... Fear not, however – I shall indeed be selecting my three from the very cream of Slytherin, and I sincerely pray that you believe me when I tell you that I have found (or will have found) the very best and most secure of reasons to put my closely-guarded trust in these children._

_I look forward to meeting you again soon; may the spirit of Hogwarts and the honor of our forefathers burn bright and forever live on!_

_Most sincerely yours,_

_Professor Horace G.R. Slughorn, Ma.D., Wi.G., O.M. 4th Class_

_PS. My dear Minerva, would you _please_ tell the portrait of Professor Jensen-Flanders that my contacts in Beauxbatons tell me that her granddaughter Isadora is doing wonderfully? I am sure that she will grow up to be a wonderful young woman, one who is (please repeat this part verbatim-!) "specifically bred to hold the reins of power in her birdlike, clever hands!" My many and gracious thanks to you for relaying this message! H._

-

_Friday, August 1st._

_Horace,_

_I am glad to know that you have managed your task. I may confess now that it was rather an unfair assignment. But I am happy to find that you have risen to the challenge regardless. _

_Naturally, I am rather unsettled by our patron's desire for anonymity. Still, I believe that our late Headmaster was right in believing you trustworthy – however misguided his other decisions of the sort may have been. _

_I hope that you will choose your Slytherins with care. Thank you for assuring me that their loyalties will be examined; do not forget that they will also need to be of the proper disposition to get along with students from other houses. After all, we cannot have Grimmauld Place turn into a taunting ground._

_I expect you and your students to arrive at Grimmauld Place on Friday, September 5th. For security purposes, we can only let in students who arrive with a registered teacher, so I suggest that you arrange for your group to gather together beforehand. Or better yet, pick them up yourself – that provides for a lower security risk._

_Filius and myself have already sent out our formal invitations; our students should have received them last month on the 28th. Each packet should include copies of the official materials I have included – supply lists, statements of purpose, liability releases, welcoming letters and suchlike, as well as a personal letter from you to your sponsored students. Pomona is drafting her letter as we speak, and I expect you to have your own packets posted by August 18th at the latest._

_Good luck._

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress._

_PS. Professor Jensen-Flanders' portrait begs that you stop interfering in her grandchildrens' lives. She assures me that you may give up the cause for lost, as her granddaughter Isadora "most certainly does not wish to establish a Slug Club offshoot in Beauxbatons," again verbatim. _

_PPS. "_Anything for the mistress of Hogwarts?_" I may have to keep that remarkably self-sacrificial line for future reference, Horace. I suggest you take it back while you still have the chance, _especially_ since I certainly have never heard you say it before._

-

_Monday, August 4th. _

_My dear Headmistress,_

_Oh, please excuse me. Did I say that? I assure you, it was all in good fun. I offer you profuse thanks for catching the error. _

_And please give my apologies to Professor Jensen-Flanders. But it is a pity, I must say, such a pity! Her Isadora is destined for great things indeed… (And you may repeat that too, if you please.)_

_Yours most truly,_

_Horace Slughorn_

-x-

From the day that she received McGonagall's letter, time had seemed to slow down to a crawl for Hermione. The brunette was sure that she would have had as much fun as Harry, Ron, and Ginny, had she been interested in Quidditch and table-bashing. Predictably, she was not… It _was_ good to be around her friends, but if it were not for them, she could have done without the chaos and the noise and the incessant cries of "Quidditch! Quidditch!" or "Ron, get the quaffle!" or "Shut up, Ginny!" or "RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, YOU GET OFF THAT BROOM AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT GNOME _RIGHT_ THIS MOMENT OR I WILL TELL YOUR FATHER!" and so on. Because Weasley summers were just that – _Weasley_ summers.

Her brow furrowed as she remembered how Ron had even tried to pry her away from her only respite – her books. Couldn't he see that she liked to be alone sometimes? Harry and Ron were her best friends, and Ginny a dear girl, but Hermione Granger still had a special affection for books. To take them away from her, surrounded as she was by quidditch and brooms – Hermione groaned inwardly at the thought.

She'd left the Burrow a little before September, opting to spend the last three weeks of summer at home. But although the brunette had thoroughly enjoyed her time back in the world that she came from, her Muggle parents could never quite seem to grasp the magnitude of what was happening around her.

Of course, it would not have been difficult for Hermione to explain the situation in a way that would have made her mother and father truly understand. But something told her to reserve the chaos of War and Harry and Horcruxes all to herself. Something in her wanted to keep a part of her past the same – the old dentist jokes, the awards for medical excellence on the walls, her mother's bland cooking and her father's boisterous laugh.

It didn't matter that all these things belonged to a world where she no longer fitted in. As long as that world didn't change…

So in this manner, the days had trickled by until finally, September 5th had come. And here she was at last, now – standing with her friends before the entry to Grimmauld Place, clutching her overstuffed suitcase with one hand and a few extra books that wouldn't fit in the other, feeling a potent mixture of anticipation, curiosity, and a hint of fear at what lay ahead.

McGonagall turned to face the four of them after adjusting a complex new series of locks, latches, and dials on the front door. "Grimmauld Place is ready to receive you and your fellow students, but you four are all to wait together in the main common area until everybody arrives," she announced, sniffing. "And we shall have none of this… _scrambling_ for rooms and beds until we are all gathered _together_. Is that understood?" she demanded sternly.

The four students answered in a quiet chorus.

She turned back to the door. "Very well, then. Enter," she commanded, as she gave the door a final tap. The great wooden slab swung open with a soft creak. Before stepping inside, the Headmistress gingerly levitated after her a large, flat object swathed in black fabric. It was easily the size of a window or a door, and Hermione found herself wondering what it was as she followed the professor within.

But the dramatic changes in the familiar interior soon pushed away all thoughts of the mysterious object. The house that she remembered from fifth year was largely gone, refaced beneath a heavy scouring charm that had finally taken out the smell of rot and mildew. It had also damaged many of the fine old fabrics and wooden panels in the building, but with the passing of the last Black male, Hermione supposed that Kreacher would be the only being to protest.

Still, scratched wood aside, it wasn't a bad change, the brunette decided. And things certainly were going to be much more pleasant without the pervasive stench of neglect…

Ginny walked a little closer to Hermione as the four of them followed McGonagall down the dimly lit, windowless hall. Flitwick had arranged for the youngest Weasley to leave with McGonagall and the trio, saving the Charms professor a risky trip. The arrangement suited the four of them well, and Hermione found herself grateful for the girl's company – and not for the first time, either.

McGonagall's slight heels clicked sharply against the stone flags and they walked in silence down the corridor. The house was familiar, yes, but that did not dampen the feeling of awe that the ancient, once-lavish construct inspired. The dark wooden paneling was scratched up now, but that only made it more forbidding; the old plush carpets were worn, and that only added to the old house's air of a distant, hostile kind of luxury. The wall sconces flared and sputtered, and that was also a feeling – the memory of fear.

At last the Headmistress stopped, in front of yet another set of heavy oaken doors. Gently, she floated her large parcel to beside her, and then turned to face her students.

"This room was once the main parlor of the Black House," she explained rather sternly, "and is to be treated with respect at all times. Because there are only to be fourteen of you in all, there will be only one common room: this one is it." She gave them a long, warning look. "And there will be _no_ mischief-making in here," she admonished firmly, staring straight at Ron and Ginny.

The siblings gulped guiltily and Hermione watched in amusement as two pairs of ears reddened.

McGonagall abruptly turned and waved her wand once, pointing at the large, flat object. She floated it, still covered, towards the two doors, and brought it to a rest directly between them. Hermione caught a whispered "_firmus fixti,_" and then the object hung by itself two feet from the ground, secure in its odd position between the doors, still and unmoving.

McGonagall flicked her wand once more, and the friends looked on in amazement as the old wood literally _grew_ together before their very eyes, until finally no crack between the two doors could be seen. Indeed, the doors themselves seemed to have also fused into the paneled walls.

The professor drew back a bit and surveyed her work in satisfaction, then raised her wand a last time, mouth tightening slightly in concentration. "_Para ianua,_" she exclaimed, the command clear and ringing.

But the stream of mauve light that flowed from her wandtip was lazy nevertheless, circling once around the black object and disappearing into the wood. Hermione suspected that the spell itself may have been sentient, hence its slow, self-satisfied pace; even McGonagall at her most imposing could not make it go faster than it 'wanted' to.

Sentient magic. The thought gave her the shivers.

McGonagall watched as the wood around the black object glowed briefly before dimming back to normal. She turned around again.

"This entry will now work like the portrait holes at Hogwarts," she announced. "Your password will change every four days. Currently, it is "Saint George of Cappadocia."

So _that's _what it was, Hermione realized, mind racing. A portrait. And an important one, judging by how carefully McGonagall had handled it. A trustworthy one. And tremendously powerful, too, to be allowed to guard the entrance to the students' quarters quite alone, without any charms placed on it besides the hanging, the sealing, and the hole-making.

It was of a size and shape that she had seen in only one other place – back in Dumbledore's office, in Hogwarts, when she had been called there for a prefect's briefing. Hermione was reminded strongly of the matching portraits she'd seen then on the walls, each of a past Head of Hogwarts…

Her hand shot up into the air. "Excuse me, professor," she asked intently. "When will we get to know which portrait is guarding our door?"

McGonagall gave a faint smile and inclined her head. "Now," she responded simply, and pulled back the heavy black fabric.

And there, with a peaceful smile and merrily twinkling eyes, was Albus Dumbledore.

-x-

Half an hour later, Hermione found the common room filled with people. Professor Sprout had arrived ten minutes after McGonagall, with Neville, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and a sixth-year boy named Monty Brocklehurst. Mandy had come with them as well, explaining that she was actually chosen by Flitwick - but again the Charms master had opted out of a tricky pick-up, and she had come with her little brother Monty's group instead.

The next batch of arrivals was something of a surprise. When the portrait hole opened again, it revealed none other than a tall, tawny-golden centaur with a shock of white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

All around the room, Hermione saw mouths drop open in surprise. Harry, however, immediately leaped up. "Firenze," he exclaimed happily, ever-present Lucky Lolly sticking out of his mouth. "You're teaching here?"

The blond centaur smiled slightly as he carefully picked his way into the Common Room, over the portrait hole's edge. "McGonagall thought that I might be of use," he replied. "…It was very kind of her, I don't have too many other options open without Hogwarts," he said quietly.

Hermione watched closely as Harry's smile wilted by a few degrees. She noticed that he didn't perk back up. Not when Ginny offered him a chocolate frog, not when Neville came by with Trevor to chat, not even when Ron let his best friend win at Wizard's Chess…

But the new arrivals didn't leave her with too much time to dwell on things. Firenze had brought two more Gryffindors with him, Seamus and Parvati. As the boys grouped together around Ron's wizard chess set (he was now playing Justin), the girls peppered the pretty Indian girl with questions. Where was her twin? – sent off to Rowanoak Academy of Modern Wizardry in America; England was no longer very safe but her parents somehow believed in the overseas Land of National Security. How did they manage to convince their parents to send them to school again? - whines, complaints, and Padma's dropping of one too many plates. Where did she get that gorgeous new skirt? – Metra Ruocco's, _Sastre_, off in a wizarding corner of Barcelona.

Another few minutes later, Professor Flitwick arrived at last, bringing with him a pretty sixth-year whom Hermione didn't recognize. Ginny seemed delighted to introduce Renee Johnston-Hua, however, and Hermione was surprised to discover the girl was a Hufflepuff.

She decided that it was something about the clothes. Hufflepuff clothes weren't supposed to be fashionable, she decided. Or… _revealing_, for that matter. Still, the youngest Weasley liked her well enough, and Hermione wasn't complaining. It could've been worse, she supposed. Imagine if… say, _Pansy Parkinson_ were to appear. It would be so much worse.

The only professor yet to arrive was Slughorn. Ron had hoped that the old, sedentary Potions Master would not show up, but Hermione knew better. As far as McGonagall was concerned, the old man was "on their side."

Yes, Slughorn was a Slytherin, but Harry'd said that the teacher had quite favored his mother, a Muggleborn Head Girl and a Gryffindor. Slughorn, Hermione had decided during the summer, was opportunistic and supremely manipulative in his backstage puppeteering, but he was not a bad sort of fellow. He was the kind of man, she thought, who would've balked at using the Avada.

There were not many Slytherins she would've said that about… Slughorn, a little second-year brunette named Jamie, Millicent Bulstrode, _maybe _Pansy Parkinson, and possibly Blaise Zabini. In Hermione's book, it was a sizeable compliment to the other side.

Not again, Hermione, she chastised herself suddenly. No, this wouldn't do at all – all this talk of The Other Side and Their Kind and Them, as if being a Gryffindor made you holy and being Slytherin condemned you to the darkest rings of Hell. She was realistic enough to know that yes, many Slytherins did turn out to be what Ron called "bad eggs." And she was factual enough to admit that yes, most Dark Wizards were indeed from Slytherin.

But her time spent with books – especially histories - was not for nothing, and Hermione had picked up a strong sense of… social righteousness, she supposed, along the way. There was a feeling that she could see something in the downtrodden that others could not. Elves, goblins… and now it was the Slytherins.

She almost laughed at the thought – Slytherins, the downtrodden! The girls chattering near her missed the wry smile, hidden behind an outspread copy of _The Daily Prophet._ Hermione hadn't had the time to read it that morning, busy as she was with last-minute repacking. Now, in the lazy pre-lunch haze, she browsed leisurely through.

Really, though, Hermione thought to herself. It was undeniable – being a Slytherin brought a stigma with it. While it was true that pricks like Malfoy wanted desperately to be in that house, it was also true that the moment a boy or girl was sorted into it, relations with most other houses, especially with Gryffindor, would be immediately cut off. Usually, it was by the non-Slytherin party. Through the years, Hermione had witnessed more than one fledgling Hogwarts Express friendship be quickly broken off after one of the acquaintances was sorted into the hated house.

And that was true, too – Slytherins were hated. Nobody liked them except for themselves. During the latter half of her sixth year, Hermione began to realize that the students in green acted cruel, snide and snobbish because that was the only way they had to maintain their precarious sense of superiority…

It was a vicious cycle, Hermione thought. Just like with the old British poorhouses, the blacks in America, the goblins and the giants and the elves. And if there was one thing Hermione Granger was sure about in the unsteady sands of the present, she was sure that she hated vicious cycles.

She hmphed to herself and began to scan the pages of the Prophet again. _Private Records of Famous Arithmancer Wenlock Discovered, Muggles Demand Representation in the Ministry of Magic, New Sneaking Charm Patented, Parkinson Daughter Disowned, Lefaire Launches Spring Cosmetics Li -_

Hermione stopped and looked back at the last headline.

"Parkinson Daughter Disowned," she read softly to herself again, blinking once in disbelief. There was a photo of a stern-looking woman who bore a strong resemblance to Pansy at the side. "by _Rita Skeeter_…"

She adjusted the page to bring the article closer, and read aloud to herself.

"Chulmington, Devon – This sleepy manor town in the Southwest was torn by a family feud more than a month ago, resulting in the permanent expulsion of the teenaged daughter from one of Britain's oldest and most respected families.

"Miss Pansy Parkinson, 17, was briefly glimpsed on the night of July 27th at the front doors of the Parkinson mansion, carrying a small valise with a gold dress slung over one arm. Says her widowed mother Mrs. Priscilla Parkinson, nee Caslyn:

"'Pansy was incredibly out-of-line that night. She behaved in a way completely contrary to the expectations of her lineage… She is no longer welcome in this house, or in the homes of any of our associates… it is regrettable, but she persisted in acting in a headstrong, irresponsible way. I had no choice.'

"As it turned out, Miss Parkinson was disowned for breaking off a long-planned engagement to the only heir of another prominent wizarding family, Mr. Draco Malfoy. The two had been classmates and good friends at Hogwarts, inside sources said, and nobody is sure what first caused the rift between the them.

"Miss Parkinson's whereabouts are currently unknown. Meanwhile, her mother's decision sets a fitting example to families across the nation as they attempt to deal with their rebellious sons and daughters. According to Mrs. Parkinson, Pansy's own stubborn streak was encouraged by her late Headmaster, Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore, who died under questionable circumst-"

Hermione dropped the paper in disgust. Rita Skeeter… the brunette girl fairly seethed with anger. How _dare_ that disgusting woman dare imply that Dumbledore had done any wrong in Pansy Parkinson, how dare she imply that he wasn't even _murdered_!

She suddenly realized that the group of girls gathered around her had all started listening at some point; they now sat wide-eyed with shock and attention. In the next second, they all fell to talking at once. Hermione looked from one face to another and found that she couldn't even begin to understand them. So she raised her newspaper, glared, and retreated behind it again.

Rita Skeeter, and Parkinson, too… Hermione furrowed her brow, perplexed. She'd always thought that Rita Skeeter was somehow connected with the upper echelons of wizarding society. The opinions that the foul woman expressed were usually shared by the old blueblood aristocracy; rarely did Skeeter pick out and humiliate a member of that class. And didn't she owe Malfoy some sort of favor, for the information passed to her in Fourth Year? Why would she reveal embarrassing secrets that Malfoy would doubtlessly want to suppress?

Hermione found herself with too many questions, and little hope of even a single answer. One thing, however, was for sure – now that Parkinson was disowned, there was no way that the blonde could continue living her old life. The Death Eaters – the Parkinson "associates" mentioned – would surely spurn her. After all, she'd rejected both tradition and the hand of the most promising up-and-coming follower of Voldemort. Why would Pansy do such a thing? Wasn't she as Muggle-hating as the next Slytherin?

No – next _Death Eater_, Hermione corrected herself. Because Slughorn was a Slytherin, but didn't really hate Muggles at all…

As Hermione's mind grappled with those questions, another part of her simply wondered what exactly had come between Parkinson and Malfoy. The two had always seemed destined since birth. They had been good friends since first year and were well-matched in everything that mattered to their kind: houses, money, opinions, manners – or lack thereof.

It must have been something momentous, the clever brunette decided. Perhaps it had something to do with… Well, what were the recent developments? Dumbledore's killing. The flight from Hogwarts. Malfoy's probable summer involvement with the Death Eaters.

Hermione blinked. That couldn't be, she thought quickly. It couldn't.

Everything seemed to point at Pansy having… having some sort of a break with the Death Eaters, but that just wasn't possible. Was it?

But Hermione never got a chance to carry that line of thought further. For just that moment, the portrait hole swung open for the last time, and the teachers all stood up from the table they'd gathered around to greet Slughorn and commence with the settling-in at last.

The old Potions Master arrived in a rather splendid grey traveling-suit, puffing slightly and wiping his bald pate with an elegant silk handkerchief of green after tumbling through the rectangular portrait hole. For the first time, Hermione noticed that the portrait was double-sided. Dumbledore beamed down at them genially from the outside, and the inside as well. For some reason, the brunette felt something comforting wash over her. She was reminded of relief.

"Well, well," Slughorn nodded, smiling jovially, his enormous moustache groomed carefully upwards. "Well. I see that I am the last to arrive; my very _humblest_ apologies to you, my dears," he said to the room at large. As he stepped aside, he gestured at the open portrait hole. "My Slytherins are coming just this moment; Blaise wanted to inspect the sconce lights on the stairs," he explained, still beaming.

As the professor finished speaking, Blaise Zabini himself stepped elegantly in. The tall Italian straightened, took in his surroundings carefully, blinked once, and then smirked slightly, sweeping a graceful bow to the room at large. The students watched silently as he made his way over to the cluster of boys, looking self-assured and apparently finding nothing out of the ordinary in his new companions.

"Potter, Longbottom, Finch-Fletchley," he said calmly, nodding at each and extending his hand. "We've met?"

There was a brief pause.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry took Zabini's hand and shook it, looking shaken up himself. All traces of his good mood were gone now, Hermione noticed.

Zabini, however, seemed the very soul of charm, all fleeting smiles and polite inquiries and not a hint of "Slytherin-bastardness." He didn't even flinch when Ron spluttered angrily all over his hand.

It was an act, Hermione knew, but she found herself admiring the Slytherin's adaptability all the same.

When she next turned back to the portrait hole, Hermione found a blonde Slytherin already inside, holding on tightly to the handle of her suitcase with a perfectly blank face. The brunette looked over at the shell-shocked group of girls next to her and realized that they all were thinking the same thing – so _that's_ where Pansy got to after she was disowned. Here.

There was a long, awkward silence, until Slughorn stepped in, levitated Pansy's luggage to the pile in the corner, and gestured her towards the gaggle of staring girls. The blonde raised her chin slightly, eyes glinting, and wordlessly complied. Nobody greeted her.

They all waited for a few more minutes, the boys talking quietly in stiff, awkward tones, the girls locked in stony silence. Over at the teachers' table, Professor McGonagall looked as though her eyes were going to fall out of her head with Pansy's unexpected arrival.

The Headmistress was currently fighting to keep her angry suspicions under control. She resigned herself to shooting razor-edged glares at Slughorn for the time being, glares which he studiously and skillfully avoided.

I specifically said _trustworthy_, McGonagall was shouting in her brain. Trustworthy. _Non-inflammatory_. And you – you give me _this_!

But the Headmistress should have saved her frustration to use elsewhere than on Pansy Parkinson's selection. Because the next head that appeared through the portrait hole belonged to another blond - a pale one, the face below seeming to bear a permanent sneer.

McGonagall actually stood up from the table, seized by a furious shock, as she realized that Slughorn's last choice was none other than Draco Malfoy.

After a glance at the Headmistress, Ron jumped up from his seat at the chess board and prepared to rush at the blond boy. He was already halfway across the room before Harry and Blaise managed to grab his arms and hold him back.

"Harry, what do you think you're _doing_!" hollered the furious redhead, twisting in their grasp. "And let me go, you Slytherin _filth_," the Weasley shot at the other boy. "Why don't you go and consort with your slimy little friends, you – "

Harry muffled Ron quickly with an arm just as Blaise cast a silencing charm on the redhead. Harry nodded a frigid thanks as Ron finally stood still, seething wordlessly at the unperturbed blond.

Watching in apprehension, Hermione breathed out in relief as order seemed to return to the room. Nobody knew how to act, but at least Ron wasn't going berserk anymore, she thought. Thank Merlin for Harry and small blessings.

The had all followed the news with bated breath as somehow, the Draco Malfoy had managed to escape prosecution following Dumbledore's death and his flight from the school. Hermione supposed that he'd inherited his father's knack for manipulation… not to mention all of the legendary Malfoy fortune, as well.

He hadn't been heard from for a few weeks. But after June, his case had been cleared, and there was no need for him to stay "in hiding." The Witch Weekly was again filled with accounts of the Malfoy balls, the Malfoy parties, the Malfoy opinions and politics.

In July, Hermione had looked on in vague disgust as Malfoy burnished his public image by donating an unprecedented two and half million galleons to the Ministry of Magic "to aid the more disadvantaged members of wizarding society." She hadn't failed to notice the sudden appearance of more lavish dress on subsequent photos of Ministry officials, and it had taken all her self-control to not explode at the Weasleys when Arthur drove proudly home one day in a brand new Ministry car that his superiors had passed down to him, to use as his own.

Indirect corruption was the worst form of corruption, thought Hermione, angry even now. Because it was pervasive, it was quiet, and it _seemed_ so innocuous and mild…

She turned her gaze back to the blond who leaned against the wall by the portrait hole. Malfoy acted as though nothing had happened at all, and was now surveying his new surroundings with an air of contemptuous nonchalance. But although Ron was growing more subdued, the Headmistress was just getting started. She stalked over to Slughorn, who visibly cringed.

"My dear Minerva – calm down now, I can explain – yes, I have a _very_ good reason for trusting the boy, if only you'll _listen_! Would you just _step outside_ for a moment now," he said quickly, waving her out of the room. "Excuse us," he muttered hurriedly to those inside, and disappeared after her.

The room fell silent as the students stared at Draco, and Draco stared coolly back.

"Malfoy," said Blaise Zabini at last, from the other side of Ron. One end of his mouth lifted in a small smirk. "I advise you to get your stony arse away from the wall before you freeze into a statue," he drawled lazily, twirling the wand he'd just withdrawn. The boys around him stiffened; it was an invitation for a near-murderer to join them – and it came from one who wasn't really their own, not yet.

Draco's glance swept the boys. He looked up. "Sorry, Zabini." The ghost of a smirk appeared on his face. "Unlike you, I don't lower my standards…"

He ambled slowly over to the farthest end of the pentagonal room, drawing up a chair and sitting down alone. He stared at the ceiling as Ron struggled furiously to break free again.

-

Before the furious Headmistress could open her mouth, Slughorn cast a quick Silencing Charm on her and accioed her wand.

"Minerva, listen!" His voice was, for once, completely serious. "You _cannot_ expel the boy and drive him out. You can't. He's absolutely _necessary_ to us, and if you'll only give him a three-second chance you'll see that we are every bit as necessary to him! Put him on probation, if you must, but at least _see for yourself_!"

Silenced and wandless, the Headmistress looked ready to kill.

"Minerva, he's right," came a mild, unexpected voice from the door. They looked over to see Dumbledore's portrait-self smiling whimsically, templing his fingers on top of the painting's desk. "Horace is not a bad judge of character, though with a few slip-ups - " his gaze grew distant and Slughorn thought guiltily of the tall, Slytherin Head Boy who'd asked about horcruxes, " – but slip-ups are never the norm. Minerva, these are hard times… but do not forget to trust and respect," he admonished gently. "You may blame Draco Malfoy for my death, but the greatest asset to our side is its belief in the possibility of goodness – in _everyone,_ Malfoy or Millerton, Gryffindor or Slytherin, Death Eater or not." He paused. "After all, that is all we have that makes us more than Voldemort and his hordes," he murmured, peering shrewdly down through half-moon glasses.

Slughorn gave a small sigh of relief at the interruption. At a nod from the portrait, he removed the Silencing Charm, handing the wand back to McGonagall, who looked only slightly less manic than before.

Still staring at the portrait, the Headmistress spluttered in disbelief.

"Well, I… I _never_ – ! Albus, you – why, you _died_ because of your misplaced trusts and – " She stopped suddenly, looking chagrined at what she'd just said.

"…My apologies, Albus," she muttered softly.

"No no, Minerva, that's quite all right," the old Headmaster reassured her benignly. "I can understand your frustration… even your mistrust of my judgment," he said, winking, "but please _do_ trust me this time."

Minerva looked up at the portrait, whose eyes were currently twinkling at the foolishness of his own death. Only Albus could ever do that, she thought wearily to herself. Die because of years and years of misplaced trust… and _laugh_ about it.

She sighed. "All right," McGonagall acquiesced at last, with no idea why she had just agreed to this piece of utter insanity.

"Oh, good," cut in Slughorn quickly, rubbing his hands together nervously. "You see, Minerva… Draco Malfoy is also our… sole sponsor."

"There were _no_ other takers," he explained, avoiding her glare. "I was lucky that Pansy even thought of him to begin with…"

Slughorn gulped as McGonagall fixed him with a long stare, one which he accidentally met. Her sharp blue eyes were challenging, as if testing the will of Slughorn's watery blue.

And then, slowly, grudgingly, she looked away and gave a single nod.

"Lovely, then," came Dumbledore's voice from the portrait. The white-haired wizard beamed brightly at both of them, and then leaned back in his chair, promptly returning to sleep.

-

-

**AN:**

I'm _done!_ Yay! My god, that was another monster of a chapter… hope you're all satisfied. I don't like this one as much as the last, for some reason. Not as much character analysis, I guess… but don't worry, that comes in the next one.

I'm sorry to say that I'll be changing the update schedule to **once every two weeks**, although I encourage you all to check back often as I'm sure that I'll be updating early often. But school starts in a few weeks, and there's SO MUCH STUFF TO DO before senior year begins… I'm already running about five hours of sleep a day as is, and I don't want to be dead, for obvious reasons.

Thank you all for sticking with me! And yes, things start happening soon. I'm sooooo excited:) And – look! Draco and Hermione are officially in the same universe now! Isn't that amazing? ;)

-

**HUGE round of applause for my _fantastic_ reviewers (that's you guys!):**

**Fiona Goldfeet, Sunny June 46, My-Chemical-Romance-Fan, Vashka, the girl trapped in a dream, Silverbunnie, Zekintha, Flor De La Cereza, RidiculousnessMakesTheWorldGoRound, Rai, Philyra912, dizzydragon, tinydancer69, Sayaku-chan, Tiarwen, miksel, yingnyang, ILoveMyDraco, Dree, Arctic Demon, Lisa, Draco's-Cutie-Aaliyah, Lucky, AnniePotter2004, LJ924, potts, stwabewy, luna, Commander Phoenix, Artemis, The Wild Woman, shadowcat15, SimplyChristine, Sever13, 1lorett, musicalbballgall, and Whitty.**

Honestly, I _say_ I'm writing Haven to get the plotbunny off my back… But on any regular story, I would've had no trouble stopping by now. I have a terrible track record of not completing my fics. You see, I know what happens in the story already… But no matter what, I'm _definitely_ going to go through to the end on this one – and that's totally because of all of you. So yes – now that we're past the fifth chapter? This story is _all_ for you guys, my wonderful, wonderful reviewers! ;)

**Special thanks to:**

**dizzydragon, Philyra, Arctic Demon, Draco's-Cutie-Aaliyah, AnniePotter2004, **and** 1lorett** for their awesome, heart-warming, so-helpful book-length reviews;

my lovely betas, **Zekintha, dizzydragon, **and** ILoveMyDraco** for being such wonderfully constructive, wise, helpful betas and just plain old _putting up_ with me (I've got to be the worst beta-recipient this side of the Appalachians! I cringe.);

and **Sunny June 46, Philyra912, **and** Vashka** – for their wonderful, generous, enthusiastic fic-reccing. Not only are these three my loudest proponents, they are also all on my all-time favorite authors list. _Everyone, go read their stuff_!

-

-

**Notes on Chapters 5 and 6**

…**on Snape's loyalties.**

ILoveMyDraco compared Snape to "Switzerland on steroids." I must say, this is a really accurate analogy. :D I tried really hard to make him… wavery, I guess. Because that's how I see him – not completely one or the other, but instead, very torn, very conflicted, often confused. To discover which side he's on now, reread the last section of Ch 5 carefully… that one drops some hints. Warning, though: he is mercurial, and don't count on him being cast in black-and-white.

…**on Snape/Lily.**

The funny thing about Ch 5 is this: I'm really not a Snape-Lily shipper. I see it being unrequited and one-sided, with Lily being just nice and Snape being extremely conflicted: it's not _exactly_ love. I don't think he ever does anything drastic for her (unless you count killing her as drastic); Snape's just not that kind of guy. He gets shoved into the tragic-hero role because he's shoveable. Yet although I don't see Lily loving/whatevering Snape back, I find Young Severus (and Old Severus, too) to be a very sympathetic character. Snape's definitely one of my favorite people from all of Harry Potter…

…**on James/Lily.**

Ironically, although I do ship James/Lily (it's what got me started on fic in the first place!), I find James to be a far less sympathetic character than Snape. Simply put, he's a bully and a jerk and an egotistical jock. However, there's something redeeming in him – perhaps it's the incorrigible idealism, the belief that everything can work out if you just try hard enough, perhaps the plain old Gryffie bravery? – that makes me love the pairing. I guess you could say that I ship both Snape/Lily and James/Lily at once… but James always wins in the end, for whatever reason. And yes, I love how unfair it is. That's what makes it great to read and great to write.

…**on teenage girls' fantasies.**

Several people commented on how Haven "wasn't just another teenage girl's fantasy." I am very flattered, and also very amused – because, you see, I am _definitely_ a teenage girl, and Havenverse (as a friend has put it), while tempting, does indeed exist completely in my head. o.0

Don't worry, I know what you mean. ;) I just like pulling phrases out and playing with them… it's just fun, doncha know XD

…**on personal responses.**

1lorett has assured me that personal responses to reviews are indeed legal in the world of Thanks, 1lorett! However, I found out about this only _after_ I deleted all of the responses… Sorry, guys. (sigh)

…**on Blaise vs. Draco.**

I'm pretty sure that some people are going to have quibbles with my interpretation of Blaise. I'm quite aware that trieste-Blaise is more like one of the many fandom-Dracos than anything else. However, I ask that you give me time – about another chapter or so – and I'll promise that all this will make sense, from Blaise's debonair charm and supreme adaptability, to Draco's standoffishness.

…**on Harry.**

Harry is on a mild but steady dosage of Felix Felicis, and is already showing signs of wear. Look carefully, in this chapter and also the next few!

…**on lurkers, Satan, and Voldy.**

I repeat: Lurkers are evil. Eeeevvviillll like weevils. Horrible furnunculus-spawning fur-sprouting slug-vomiting SPAWN OF SATAN. Or of Voldy, as the case may be. You take your pick.

…Personally, I think being the Spawn of Voldy would be much, much grosser. I mean, who'd your mother be? Nagini? gross.

…**on Horcruxes.**

Yes. They figure hugely in this story. That's all for now.

-

**Fic Rec of the Update:**

I said I wouldn't rec fics with big followings. Nevertheless, I will rec them anyway, out of sheer enjoyment and total gratitude. They are sorted by niche/interest group, but I STRONGLY recommend that you give them all a try!

Niche: beautifully, gorgeously written epic. Great plotline, clever dialogue, perfect personality quirks.

-**Linked**, by **Philyra912**

Niche:fall-out-of-seat flippant humor in a light, breezy, incredibly realistic dialogue/mail format. Very fresh, very accurate, g_reat_ characterizations!

-**Customer Service**, by **Sunny June 46**

Niche: spectacular situational humor, a longish fic but one that you can finish in one night, great side pairing.

-**Misguided Sympathy**, by **Vashka**.

_All three authors are linked from my favorite authors page._

-

One last word:

REVIEW!

XD


	4. TBA Chapter 4

**If you listen to music **while you read fic and you like mellow stuff, go to carybrothers dot com and stream his music. Skip the first and third songs. Since this chapter was written listening to Cary Brothers, I just thought I'd throw this out there.

HAVEN

**-**

Note_: **read **the following passage, because Ch. 6 has been revised. Ch. 7 picks up from here._

-

_The next head that appeared through the portrait hole belonged to another blond - a pale one, the face below seeming to bear a permanent sneer. _

_After a glance at the Headmistress, Ron jumped up from his seat at the chess board and prepared to rush at the blond boy. He was already halfway across the room before Harry and Blaise managed to grab his arms and hold him back. _

"_Harry, what do you think you're doing!" hollered the furious redhead, twisting in their grasp. "And let me go, you Slytherin bollock!" the Weasley shot at the other boy. "Why don't you go and _consort_ with your stupid friends, you – "_

_Harry muffled Ron quickly with an arm just as Blaise cast a silencing charm on the redhead. The green-eyed boy nodded a frigid thanks to the Slytherin as Ron finally stood still, seething soundlessly at the unperturbed blond. _

_The room fell silent as the students stared at Draco, and Draco stared coolly back._

"_Malfoy," said Blaise Zabini at last, from the other side of Ron. "I advise you to get your stony arse away from the wall before you freeze into a statue," he drawled lazily, twirling the wand he'd just withdrawn. The boys around him stiffened; it was an invitation for a near-murderer to join them – and it came from one who wasn't really their own at all._

_Draco's glance swept the boys. He looked up. "Sorry, Zabini." The ghost of a smirk appeared on his face. "Unlike you, I don't lower my standards…" _

_He ambled slowly over to the farthest end of the pentagonal room, drawing up a chair and sitting down alone. He stared at the ceiling as Ron struggled furiously to break free again._

-

Chapter 7: Tension Tiding

-

Harry tightened his arm around Ron's body, hissing furiously in his ear. "Ron! Listen to me – _don't attack Malfoy_, d'you hear? If he's really still dangerous after the official clearance and all, don't you think for a _minute_ that McGonagall would let him stay. But if he isn't… just trust me on this, Ron. Or it's trouble for all of us."

Ron shot a sideways glance at his best friend. "Harry, _what _– " he began in indignation, before suddenly stopping at the look in Harry's eyes. He found himself startled by a strange intensity in them.

The dark-haired boy fixed Ron with a long, solemn look. "I'll explain," he promised, and finally released the redhead, gesturing for Zabini to do the same.

Ron let out a breath as the two boys abruptly let him go, stepping away and stretching his arms slightly – they had started to cramp, held behind his back as they were,. Turning his glance back towards Malfoy, Ron shot him a dirty glare before looking away. He pointedly ignored Zabini.

There was a long silence, before Hermione finally got up and walked over towards Harry and Ron.

"So," she said at last, with a determined smile - an ex-prefect faced with the very worst. The effect was grim. "Professors, are we to get our rooming assignments?"

-

Hermione looked over her corner of the room with satisfaction. The three of them – herself, Parvati, and Pansy – were situated comfortably in a spacious area that opened from the corridor behind the new common room. From its size and odd shape, she supposed that it was joined together from two separate rooms, perhaps three. The less social part of her wished that they could have just kept the rooms separate, each student with her own quarters, but her logical side knew that the professors at the school would jump at any opportunity to "build new bonds" between the houses.

It was also much safer this way, she thought, surreptitiously glancing over at Pansy's bed. It would be difficult for a renegade student to pass information to the outside with so little privacy: the arrangement was nothing if not practical.

She stood up from her own red-and-gold bed, inspecting a small bookshelf that sat snugly against the wall. Hermione had already filled it with her books, barely fitting all of them in. There was no private desk – her homework would have to be done in the commons.

The students had all been told to wait until every room assignment was called out, so Hermione had heard the boys' arrangements, too. They were far less comfortable – four to a group. Hermione bit her lip as she remembered Ron's expression of horror and Harry's of grim acceptance at the announcement of their roommates: Zabini and Malfoy.

She sat back down on her bed and rubbed her temples. The whole unity thing was getting really quite ridiculous, she decided. She applauded whoever it was that did the room assignments for trying… but couldn't they just _see_? Putting those four together was likely to result in at least one violent, bloody death. And it was guaranteed to bring more than a few frayed nerves.

Hermione sighed. Poor Harry, she thought. Stuck with two Slytherins… was that even _safe_? she wondered. Yes, Draco had been pardoned, and she had heard the story about the shaking, lowering wand-arm at least four times… But still. She was trying to be more trusting of Slytherins, really she was - but recently the brunette had noticed something decidedly _off_ about her best friend, and he needed Ron by his side, _without _Blaise and Draco.

Hermione shook her head slightly as she began to unpack her clothes into the nearby wardrobe. Harry had changed so much since Dumbledore's death, she mused sadly. When Harry was happy, he seemed to be far perkier than anyone had business being, given that at any given time Voldemort had half a dozen Death Eaters on his trail. But whatever joyful glow would always just… drain out of him, until sometimes she felt that Harry was only kept afloat by the thought that tomorrow morning he would be fresh again. It was almost as though he'd lost the ability to bounce back after a disappointment. Even the smallest letdown no longer failed to take down his mood by a few irrecoverable notches.

He also seemed to be developing quite a sweet tooth, she noted. He often consumed four or more lollies during the course of a single day. Sugar cravings were normal, she supposed, especially when one was under stress, but Harry had always been more partial to chocolate than to hard candies. It was strange, to say the least.

And hard candy was hardly the worst of the shifts in Harry's self. Some days, her old friend would wake with a fire in his eyes; he'd hardly talk, except to ask probing, uncomfortable questions about memories best forgotten. He'd consume entire days – sometimes even a full week – in mental pursuit of Horcruxes and Snape, planning out strategies and solving mysteries that never existed except in his head. More than once in the past few months, Hermione had caught the green-eyed boy staring into space, muttering under his breath.

Mornings aside, Harry hardly ever reallylaughed anymore. His smiles were weak, wearied. His new intensity was more than obsessive: it was absolutely inhuman in its single-mindedness.

When Harry flipped that way, it didn't just make Hermione worry. It made her _scared_, because something in her was completely, irrationally, and hopelessly afraid of this other, furiously determined Harry. His fifth-year mood swings had now matured into something truly legendary in its proportions. Hermione was watching one of her best friends degenerate into something cruel and broken and torn in front of her very eyes, and it was infinitely more than heartbreaking.

Hermione sighed softly in the silence of her room - Pansy had left the room almost immediately, and Parvati had gone in search of the boys ten minutes ago.

She worried so for Harry… There was something wrong, of this Hermione was sure. And she was not going to just sit by and do nothing about it.

-

Meanwhile, the Parkinson blonde was exploring the old house – not at all for "fun," but because she deemed it necessary. In dangerous circumstances, Pansy thought, you learned to fend for yourself. Granted, the girls had been far less hostile than expected – in fact, they seemed only bent on ignoring her completely. Still, they couldn't have known _why_ she was here, and she certainly wasn't going to tell them. And without the knowledge of her falling-out with the Death Eaters… She was probably suspected of significant Dark ties.

Pansy stared blankly at the corridor stretching before her. She wouldn't be surprised if they wanted her dead.

But self-preservation was a powerful force, and one thankfully ingrained in nearly all Slytherins, she mused. And, so barely an hour after she had arrived, the cool, aloof blonde was prowling the labyrinth that was the ancient house. The students had not been supplied with maps in the expectation that they would not wander beyond the familiar few corridors and rooms. But Pansy knew better than to trust in the protection that adults and authority could give.

Several hours later, Pansy arrived back at the door that led to the room she shared with Granger and Parvati. "_Arma virorumque canto_," she murmured, and stepped in after the door swung open. And promptly whipped out her wand.

"Parvati Patil! What _exactly_ are you doing!" shrieked Pansy, wand tip aimed straight at the pretty Indian girl's head. "My _journals!_" she fumed, glaring so heatedly that a terrified Parvati was surprised that her face had not been set aflame. "You disgusting, _dastardly _Gryffindor scu-"

"No - Pansy, it – it isn't what it looks like," stammered Parvati over the other girl's increasingly dangerous threats. "Just… just _stop_ for a moment and I'll explain!"

To her surprise, Pansy complied, although now the tip of the wand was prodding Parvati in the throat as the Indian girl sat on Pansy's bed with the journals. A deathly silence fell and Parvati gulped, tearing her frightened eyes from Pansy's menacing glare.

"I – you – we… We heard about - about what happened," Parvati managed at last. She swallowed nervously before continuing. "And I thought… well, I sort of knew your mum, back when we were still… you know." She darted an apprehensive glance up at Pansy. "And I wanted to know… you know, if you really felt – differently about the Death Eaters, I suppose… If you could be…" she trailed off, looking away.

She stopped and waited for Pansy to answer. The silence was far too heavy, the pretty brunette thought, far too thick. Forget blunt butter knives, this was the kind of tension that you could wallop with a walking stick…

The corner of her mouth twitched in response to the absurd image, and she fought a dangerous urge to laugh. She hurriedly brought her eyes back to Pansy.

Pansy's eyes, however, were closed, and Parvati felt a coil of apprehension burrow down into her stomach. When they were little, when she and her sister and Pansy had all played together as good little pureblooded princesses did… when they were little, Pansy had always closed her eyes just before particularly nasty tantrums.

When they were little: it was such a long, long time ago, she thought. Parvati remembered a placid, balmy afternoon at her family's summer lodge years ago. The Triplets (as they called themselves after their shared first initials) had been playing Joan of Arc, before she learned the true nature of Joan's eventual demise, of course, before Professor Binns, before all of Hogwarts. It had been before social class became complicated, before Muggleborns became the Hermione Granger version of reality, before everyone had to choose sides, before there _were_ sides, before Death Eaters stepped out of the nightmare-legends from the past, before her secret crush on Cedric died with his death, before prefects and point systems and the gold lion and the green serpent that always, always fought.

"When we were little, you trusted me," came Pansy's voice suddenly, softly, and Parvati jumped at the similarity in thought. She could tell that Pansy's tone was strained, difficult; the blonde had screwed her courage to the sticking place for months and now it was slowly unwinding itself from before her eyes.

Pansy's eyes flew open and found Parvati's dark ones. Her gaze was cold, cruel, accusing. "We supposed to be _sisters_. Is this what you'd do to a twin, or a _triplet?_"

Parvati bit her lip and a flash of guilt washed over. For old times' sake… (But _war_, most of her screamed. War. Harry Potter, and You-Know-Who, and Death Eaters who are out to kill… But war is not a time for sentimentality, or for trust.)

"Remember that time Padma tried to cut your hair? Just before we were about to start our first year at Hogwarts, because she didn't want to be confused with you, because both of you wanted to keep your long hair but somebody _had_ to give? Remember what I did?" Pansy hissed furiously, voice dragging open so many of Parvati's nerves.

The Indian girl closed her eyes, bracing herself for what she knew would have to come.

"I pushed you out of the room and kept her in there with me, and told Padma that she could cut _my_ hair instead," finished Pansy, frigid. "It was horrific! And there I was, all set to enter Hogwarts as the laughingstock of the school… So what if it didn't turn out to be a big deal at all? I didn't know about hair re-growth potion at the time!" She took a deep breath. "I thought I was going to have to endure utter _humiliation_, and I just took it because back then, we were still friends! And that _meant_ something!"

Parvati squeezed watery lids closer together, and the effort was wasted. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and knew that _this_ Pansy wouldn't care even if she did hear.

"And then at Hogwarts itself. The moment you landed in Gryffindor, you told me that we couldn't be friends like we used to. And my little eleven-year-old self was left wondering if there wasn't some mistake, because where was that Gryffindork bravery? Clearly nowhere to be seen!

"Oh, and what next? Ah, yes – second year, when Morrigan Leonora hexed me with purple boils for a week because I'd dared to tell _her_, a fifth-year, that you shouldn't be pushed around because you were a proper pureblood and my friend of eight years. A _week_!"

Parvati was openly sobbing now. It was too hard to do anything else; the more she cried out, the less there was inside to strangle her. The feeling of having done wrong by a friend. The knowledge that she hadn't enough courage to change it. The terrible, traitorous consciousness of wishing that she didn't have as _difficult_ an ex-friend as Pansy. The fervent, stronger-than-anything wish that she could just turn back Time and freeze it on that summer afternoon, when the three of them had decided for the first time that the role of Joan of Arc could alternate between them, when little-girl games were the biggest items of the day, before conscience and dilemma and judgment and missing your sister and missing your not-sister (though only secretly, and only in the darkest nights after she and Lavender had fought so hard that she thought they'd never be friends again), before love triangles and love potions and love unrequited and love forgotten, before pain and loss and hope and fear and death and betrayal and before growing up happened too fast to grasp.

She'd cried when she'd lost her virginity, too, and Seamus had not been able to understand.

Now her tears made a filmy haze that succeeded in distancing the world around her in a way that she hadn't felt since her last Divination class, and Parvati suddenly realized that Pansy had stopped talking. She looked up, still hiccupping over her tears, trying hard not to think about how mascara-streaked her face must be.

Pansy stood where she'd been a moment ago, an arms-length away from her spot on the bed, stiff and frigid and insurmountably cold. The blonde's face was mask-like, pristine, painted. She looked like a fine-porcelain doll.

Parvati looked away and tried to wipe her eyes in vain for some several minutes as the sobs finally died down – because she was spent, but also because it was hard to cry when the embarrassment of doing so just gave her more reasons to cry again later, alone.

Pansy looked on, impassive, her lips turned slightly down like a disapproving Greek mask of tragedy, only her eyes still emotive, still alive.

They had lost so much in six years. It was truly amazing, how much that less-than-half-a-lifetime had done. They had all to grow up so quickly, all thrust into the thick of a world filled with prejudices and hatred, idle threats and not-so-idle threats, a memory of Tom Riddle and an escapee from Azkaban, a half-living monster of a man and a quirky gentle headmaster who was now dead, murdered at the hand of her old Potions master and head of house.

Pansy had lost her family, had lost all acknowledgement of love. As the other girl rubbed her eyes furiously in a way reminiscent of earlier, somehow happier times, the blonde wondered what Parvati had lost.

The sniffling died down at last, and instead of Pansy and Parvati, it was just an aged version two little girls, staring from opposite each other, wondering what and where exactly it had all gone astray. Was it Voldemort? Was it Harry Potter? Was it Joan of Arc, and the alternating role-play schedule? Was it because three meant a triangle, and triangles were always bad? Somehow, the things that mattered never did last.

There was a long, spent silence that dragged on for far too long, depleting itself until there was nothing more left to draw from.

Then, finally, the thin membrane of gray quiet broke.

Pansy looked away and opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it once more, hesitating again.

"I like your necklace," she offered at last, slowly, blandly, perfectly cool and monotone in voice.

Parvati looked up, surprised. "I – " She stopped herself and didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "thank you," she replied, after a while.

Pansy gave a tight, slight smile.

Parvati returned it.

The two of them stood and sat like that for a long while, fake faces firmly in place, until finally Parvati broke the silence and gestured toward herself and Pansy.

"This is _so_ ridiculous," she murmured, eyes wide and vaguely amused, as if just awakening from a long dream.

And for the first time in what felt like months, Pansy tossed back her blonde curls and laughed.

-

And so life resumed with a surprising impunity. The days quickly filled with classes, and filled too with homework for when there were weekends and no classes at all. Hermione found herself with little time to worry and even less time to seriously think about confronting Harry and Ron about anything. Life was a schedule, clearly mapped out on the parchments that had been passed out during breakfast on the first Monday after their arrival. Hermione was not at all wrong when she guessed that for once, the regularity of their days left everyone relieved.

Their classes were completely different from the Hogwarts ones. Most of her teachers taught double courses, and all four houses moved from lesson to lesson nearly as one. Though to be strictly accurate, they didn't really move at all – the teachers now came to them, instead of the other way around. There were not enough classrooms for anything else.

Ostensibly, the Grimmauld Place School sought to prepare the students for NEWTs, but Hermione soon realized that the goal seemed anything but that. Each of the core courses from Hogwarts had been tweaked. Flitwick now taught a "Practical Applications and Charms" course, focusing only on the spells that had been proved handiest in a tight squeeze; Sprout began with a similarly pragmatist approach to Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. There was far less emphasis on tests and papers, and far more on demonstrations and real-life practice. Still, the workload was anything but light.

"The rigor of this school is designed to train you for a world that no longer allows for imprecision and hesitation," McGonagall had warned them during dinner the Friday they'd arrived. "It will not be easy, but neither will be survival." No one had said a word.

So that was it, Hermione decided. Working with the Order was now no longer a privilege of the school – it was a requirement. It was a reason for existence. That they had chosen the cream of Hogwarts' most promising crop and were now putting the students through paces that were meant to create an elite, almost invincible group of young Light wizards… The thought was flattering, but terrifying as well.

She settled too easily into a pattern of days. Breakfast with all fourteen at the long, formal Black dinner table in a rather extravagant dining hall that also led off of the main common room, four classes in the morning or free periods for when she didn't have anything scheduled (which was almost never), lunch with Harry, Ron, and the rest of the group in the dining hall, five more classes or frees in the afternoon, and then time to do whatever she wanted to until dinner.

Pansy's recent history had soon faded into the background, and the blonde and Parvati were now fast friends. Of course, it was just her luck, thought Hermione, to be stuck again with two girls who really didn't even begin to understand her. Still, they gave her a decent amount of privacy, and Ginny usually came over for a quick chat before curfew at ten o' clock.

Miraculously, Harry and Ron didn't seem to be having too many problems either. There was a brief period of discomfort when Slughorn suddenly realized that Harry seemed to have "lost his touch," but the situation simply faded. The rooming wasn't as bad as expected, either. Malfoy kept mostly to himself, but Zabini was sufficiently friendly to keep the atmosphere several degrees above frigid. The boy was really disarmingly charming when you got to know him, Hermione thought warily. He was so unbelievably different from a typical Slytherin that Hermione harbored a suspicion that there was something very dark and terrifying about him that she just wasn't seeing…. But she would do anything to keep Harry from flipping, anything to keep Ron from punching everything that breathed into a messy pulp; if that meant treating Zabini with more than a modicum of trust, she would do it. Without Malfoy's constant jibes, life for the boys was surprisingly peaceable, if tense. But tension, thought Hermione, came everywhere. There was no escaping it in Grimmauld.

All in all, life had settled into a fairly comfortable rhythm when Slughorn broke the unpleasant news.

"Ah, Ms. Granger," he'd beamed merrily one week after they'd all arrived, motioning her out of the classroom as the teachers prepared to switch. "I would greatly appreciate it if, perhaps, you could set to work on a special potion that I would like to have prepared. It would, of course, be worth a great deal of extra credit," he added hastily, his slightly beady eyes searching her face intently.

"Oh." Hermione stopped short. Hah! So _now_ Slughorn recognized who really was the best at Potions – and by dint of her own, honest work, too….

"Well, I'm… very gratified by the offer, and I'll be happy to accept," she smiled, and prepared to reenter the classroom.

"Oh, that's lovely, lovely," her Potions master returned happily. "Can you meet us in the Grimmauld library after dinner tonight, for the details and a dash of research?"

"Of course," replied Hermione. "But sir… 'us'?"

Slughorn beamed more determinedly than ever. "Ah yes, _that_," he said, rubbing his hands together (rather nervously, Hermione thought). "Ah," he said again, "ah. Well, that's, erm, well, I thought that it would be best – both for practicality and inter-house purposes – to pair you with a Slytherin partner," he managed at last.

Hermione stared.

"I assure you, he is second to none in Potions – even to you, actually – and I'm _sure _he will be every bit the gentleman," he added hastily. "Every bit," he repeated, nodding fervently.

Hermione felt an unpleasant threat lift off her shoulders. "Oh, is it just Zabini, then? Don't worry, I suppose we'll get along well enough; he's quite civil, Harry says," she said, wanting to ease Slughorn's fears.

"Ho-hum… how to say…" Slughorn straightened up. "I'll just be out with it, then. You see, my dear, you'll _actually_ be working not with Blaise, but with Draco Malfoy." He stopped and noted her shell-shocked expression. "Er, I've kept you too long, eh? 's best be off with you, then," he hemmed, shooing her back into the classroom.

Hermione sighed again as she thought through the events of the week. Something unfortunate suggested that, bad as the current one was, the coming weeks would be far, far worse.

-

-

-

And… yes. I'm late. Terribly, terribly so. So much so that I shall go all Harry-capslocky on you, poor readers. Behold:

I AM _SO_ SORRY!

And don't worry, I'll take that bi-weekly update bit off the story summary…

…**on Pansy and Parvati.**

I know there are readers out there who are totally gag-reflexing to the Pansy-Parvati scene. My Pansy isn't canon at all, I know; I just couldn't resist her in this form because she's so much more _interesting_! She does specifically refer to Parvati by her first name and not as Patil (as is the custom between different houses and non-friends)… Harry Potter Lexicon poses some interesting theories on this, so I took it and ran with it.

Coincidentally (again), I'd thought even before I ran into the HPL article that if Pansy were to have a single friend at Grimmauld, it would have to be Pansy. Pansy-Hermione is a cute little bow tie and all, but it's not at all realistic. On the contrary, Pansy is implied to be popular in the books, as is Parvati; they both seemed disposed to the kind of vapid girl-talk Hermione despises (and really, I pity her for it. Poor deprived child…); they're both rather boy-crazy at times; they both are purebloods of wizarding semi-aristocracy. It matches up. I just gave them a history…

…**on how Harry feels about Draco. **

Harry was pretty shaken by Draco's near-change-of-heart in HBP. He was struck by it, and even considered sharing it with Ron and Hermione (!)… (The Harry/Draco shippers must be having a field day with this… o.0) So clearly he's more forgiving of the boy than, say, Ron would be.

Remember that Draco did offer his friendship to Harry of his own accord in their first year. Twice. Despite the fact that Harry basically screwed his father's leader over. He's since made Potter his dead-set enemy, but it's presumably partly out of humiliation and circumstance…

Harry is a forgiving person. Hermione's a skeptical one. Ron isn't forgiving at all, but isn't nearly as insane as he's usually written out to be. I have him reacting strongly here because he would, but it's not like this sort of behavior would carry on forever. I like Ron a lot. And that's all I'm saying for now.

…**on Zabini.**

He's not perfect. Remember that, peoples.

…**on Malfoy**.

He's even less perfect… and currently more fragile than you think, too.

-

If you made a box roughly the volume of Jupiter and filled it up with thanks, that might come _close _to showing how much I appreciate you, my reviewers!

**So, here's a Jupiter-load of thanks to:**

**The Wild Woman, shadowcat15, Magical Who, Sunny June 46, Tiarwen, Sun Kissed Rose, Philyra912, Artemis, Rachel, Flor De La Cereza, Queen of the Cake-eaters, multiple elements, bips, Sayaku-chan, tinydancer69, yingnyang, Vashka, dizzydragon, Silverbunnie, Lylian, Zekintha, blueberry girl, RidiculousnessMakesTheWorldGoRound, Ahoy, Chinese Phoenix, 1lorett, Tristana, Magical Who, pookie vampires, and PadmeSolo.**

Also, thanks to everyone who caught my errors, especially **Ahoy** and **yingnyang** for pointing out that yes, Ron's middle name is indeed Bilius. And **Dreaming One** for getting me off my lazy butt to fix the ending for this chapter!

HUGE thanks to my betas **Zekintha, dizzydragon, **and** ILoveMyDraco**, who were _amazingly_ prompt in their responses, and incredibly detailed/helpful in what they said! I couldn't have done it without them! Readers, if it weren't for them, you'd be plowing through a horrifically typo-filled chapter with some totally confusing bits… :)

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**Optional** **Review Question**: Blaise Zabini. Is he too good to be true? Horace Slughorn. Is he too good to be true? Tell me what you think. :)

-

Fic Rec of the Update: **An Intermediate Guide to Dramione Romance**, by **Arctic Demon** (not dizzydragon! Oops!). It spoofs this story, and Philyra's story, and SunnyJune's story, every story on my favs list, dizzydragon's own stories… In fact, this fic spoofs just about everyone and their mothers' D/H fic. It's spiffing hilarious. And it manages to be a good resource, too:) Linked off of my favs.


	5. TBA Chapter 5

HAVEN

**-**

Chapter 8: Mission

Contrary to her expectations, working with Draco Malfoy was surprisingly easy, Hermione reflected later. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of her quill. Though there was something decidedly _off_ about the boy, she decided. It was strange, to say the least…

Their first session together had been perfectly normal. Very plain, very methodical, freakishly efficient, nothing at all out of the ordinary.

Hermione guessed that the potion would be done in about two more sessions, which was good. Malfoy unnerved her, with his supreme… indifference? It was like working with a robot, she thought wryly. Still, robots were methodical, if nothing else.

Slughorn had set them to working on the Draught of Despair, presumably for Order use. Hermione suppressed a shudder. The exact formula for the spell had been lost after centuries of being outlawed by the Ministry. But work was progressing quickly – to her surprise, Draco had showed up with extensive notes on the history of the potion, and they began testing immediately. Part of her wondered where he had managed to find the information, because she had gone through an entire section of Grimmauld Place's well-stocked collection in search of the spell and found nothing at all. It was rather unfair, she decided unhappily.

But despite the zeal with which she attacked her work, part of Hermione protested against the assignment. For the Order to employ such extreme measures was just… wrong, some part of her cried out. The completed Draught would influence the drinker in much the same way that a Dementor would. It was useful for captured Death Eaters who had developed a resistance to Veritaserum, Hermione knew, but every fiber of her self-righteous being screamed out against such measures. It would be lowering her side to the Death Eaters' standards, she protested internally. It would defeat the purpose of the war, wouldn't it? If you couldn't be sure that you were on the side of light and goodness and compassion and mercy and justice for all?

But Order work was Order work; Hermione supposed that she should be satisfied at being asked to help and leave it at that.

She sighed and readjusted her position in the common room armchair, turning over another page of her transfiguration textbook, determined not to waste time pondering the ethics of the impending war again.

-

Aimlessly wandering one of the corridors, another student struggled along eerily similar lines. The blond boy shook his head and sagged against one of the paneled walls.

This was it - Draco Malfoy was officially cracking, the boy thought bitterly to himself. They'd won, they'd won, and soon he would have completely eroded away.

All through the long session with Granger Draco had been near-silent, his mind working furiously on two completely different levels. On the immediate plane, he was deciphering ancient texts and fitting together new combinations of steps and ingredients to reproduce a brew from only the vaguest hints of directions.

On the other level, he was grappling with something he hadn't known existed until his old Headmaster had died.

You didn't kill him, his mind always inserted at this point, fiercely. It wasn't your fault. You bear no guilt.

On this other plane of existence Draco was struggling with a pain that the Dark Lord had called "conscience."

_You, Draco,_ the Dark Lord had said. _Severus tells me that you…_ Then the snake-eyed man had paused, and Draco had felt his blood run cold then. He understood; it was going to be over soon.

_(But I thought – Snape – on _my_ side…)_

_(Once a traitor, always a traitor.)_

_(Lily Evans… But he _understood_ - ?)_

_(…traitor.)_

The blond was about to take out his wand and Avada himself while he still had a chance when the Dark Lord spoke again. _Draco, Severus tells me that you have a most remarkable opportunity before you. You have been invited to join Harry Potter's new school, have you not?_

Relief had washed over like a cool salt tide at that, and Draco had quelled his thoughts before the Dark Lord would realize that there were more incriminating things inside the blond than just an invitation to the school. Snape had only told him about Draco's impending patronage of Grimmauld Place, then, not about regret and lost chances and frailty. That meant safety, he hoped – and if not safety, at least life.

_Yes, my Lord,_ the blond had responded in the affirmative, the very picture of cool charm. "My model Death Eater," Voldemort had called him a month before, only partly mocking, long after the attempted purging of Draco's conscience first began to take its toll.

_Good, Draco. You will accept the invitation. _Red eyes had narrowed into slits. _You will kill Harry Potter._

And that was it.

Snape had smiled. His eyes had glittered like knives.

_You will kill Harry Potter._ The knowledge pervaded Draco's every fiber, made him restless in the days and terrified of the nights, murdered all hope of sleep….

_You will kill Harry Potter. _

_Yes, my Lord. _

_Yes. I will be honored to._

Draco Malfoy has no choice, thought the blond boy, sliding down the wooden paneling, eyes deadening. Draco Malfoy never did. He never will have a choice. Snape was lucky. Draco Malfoy will never have a choice…

In the dead of nights, when the consciousness of impending duty was especially strong, Draco did his best to retreat within the mask, to wall his fragile sanity away from the two forces struggling to pull it down. Self-preservation, the familiar one, and conscience, his unwelcome newcomer. In the dark he lay wide-awake as he listened to The Boy Who Lived thrash in troubled dreams. Harry Potter lived in the next bed down.

Stupid, Draco had cursed. Zabini, Weasel… they had tried to put Potter across the room, as far away as possible. But Scarface had resisted stubbornly, sticking to his spot. "We each have a corner of the room," the green-eyed boy had explained, determinedly oblivious to the danger of sleeping so close to a boy who had hated him for the whole of their acquaintance, a boy who seemed to be capable of anything. "I like this corner. The bed reminds me of Gryffindor."

The flimsy excuse made no sense. The bed wasn't even red, Draco had scoffed mentally. But Harry Potter had been too noble, too damned-fucking brave to move away from the blond.

"But _Harry_," the Weasel had cried, red with frustration, not bothering to refute Harry's professed reasoning. "Harry, he'll murder you in his sleep or something," the redhead had hissed furiously to his friend, pulling Potter into a corner to rant. "He's like – a disease! Measles, or smallpox, or something!"

"Ron!" Harry had said sharply to his seething friend. Then, looking over the Weasley's shoulder with his gaze locked on Draco, "Malfoy is not a disease," he finished, voice quiet in its strength.

Draco would've liked to say that he was thankful for this. But he wasn't, not at all. Because Potter was wrong, Potter's nobility was wrong. Weasel was right. Draco Malfoy was cursed. Draco Malfoy was a terrible, fatal disease.

_You will kill Harry Potter._

_My Lord, I will be honored to._

It will be just like with Dumbledore, Draco thought, laughing at the brittle irony of it all. Show mercy, and die. Show kindness, and die. The cold, the cruel, the manipulative and the double-crossers and the cowards and the traitors – they were the ones who would prevail.

The strangest thing was, Draco found himself decidedly bitter about that fact.

-

It was a long way up the winding staircases that branched off more and more erratically with the increase in height, and Draco was in danger of becoming hopelessly lost. Good, the boy thought viciously to himself, good. Lost was good. Lost would mean a blissful departure from his mission, from Snape's half-betrayal, from Grimmauld Place, from conscience, from Harry Potter's kindness, however misplaced.

As he turned another corner, the staircase – the fifth one he'd turned on to now - came to an abrupt end. Before him was a low arch and a heavy, darkly stained door, slightly ajar. The dust lay so thickly in this part of the mansion that no footsteps could disturb the aged grey silt; he wondered idly if any of the students had been here before him. He hoped fervently that they had not.

He pushed open the door, not knowing what to expect.

It was a small, semi-circular room, largely bare except for an unsightly jumble of trunks, desks, and bookshelves in the two corners. The wall opposite him swept out in a graceful curve, bearing two large, gothic-arched windows paned with a curiously rippled glass.

And caught under a stray beam of light close by one of the windows, Harry Potter was dozing, his eyes closed.

Draco stopped cold. The boy sitting there looked dead, he couldn't keep from thinking. Pale, departed, troubled in his sleep.

_You will kill Harry Potter. _

_Yes, my Lord. _

_Yes. I will be honored to._

He shivered inadvertently and took a step backwards. A floorboard creaked.

"You don't need to go," came a voice, slightly hoarse, and Draco looked over to see Harry Potter's eyes fly wide open, a startling, piercing shade of green.

Lily Evans' eyes, Draco thought to himself, eyes of the death spell, eyes of the betrayed... He shuddered again, tearing his gaze away, feeling his cheeks flush for no reason at all.

"I'm leaving now anyway," Potter continued, his voice strangely distorted. Almost as if there were ripples in it, Draco mused, ripples in Potter's normal tone, ripples in his perception of life. It was a feeling that the blond knew well.

Draco looked up to see a strange half-smile on the face of the boy he'd deemed his arch-nemesis before he began to understand that Harry Potter's arch-nemesis would not be himself. Harry Potter's arch-nemesis was the Dark Lord, and always would be.

He watched apprehensively as Potter literally pulled himself together before his very eyes, straining to stand from the wall. Potter was weak, he realized with a sinking feeling, weak in a way that he would never show to anyone except by accident.

If Voldemort knew….

"Oh, and Malfoy – this room," came Potter's voice. Draco's head snapped up to see the green-eyed boy standing, swaying, unsteady on unfamiliar feet. "It shows you wherever you want to see if you've seen it before," he offered, nodding at the blond. "'S nice."

With that, the other boy slipped past Malfoy and was not to be seen.

"Whatever place I want to see," murmured Draco to himself. If that were true, he decided, it would not be a bad place to spend more time; besides, he was fairly sure that Potter would avoid the room now that Draco had discovered it.

He walked slowly over to one of the windows and found the images hopelessly distorted by the glass. Nor would the lock budge, by magic or by force. Draco frowned and turned away from it again, facing the door and the now empty landing outside.

"I want to see Venice," the blonde boy said aloud.

Nothing happened.

"I want to see Venice," he tried again, louder and more forceful this time; still no response.

"Damn stupid room," Draco muttered. "Damn fucking stupid bloody hous-"

He stopped and shuddered, for the third time. He'd almost felt a chill; the dust on the ground had stirred, he thought, just barely…

He turned around and tried the windows again. They swung open smoothly, and Draco felt his stomach give a lurch.

"Venice," the blond breathed, eyes wide and brows furrowed slightly. "Venice, in ninety-five…"

-

-

**AN:**

Random factoid of the day: trieste wrote most of this chapter listening to the Two Towers soundtrack! To only one song of the sound track, actually. "Forth Eorlingas" on repeat. Yes. ish.

I'm very sorry if I sound stuck up, btw, on my profile and summary and suchlike… Nobody's called me on it yet, but it gives me the jitters. Ugh. But I can't figure out another way to get a decent summary - pathetic, isn't it? Yargh. Somebody help me!

I just realized it's been more than a month since the last update. AUGH! I promise this will not become a common occurrence! I was in the middle of Early Applications to college, and it was just… not pretty. Yrk. But it's all better now; expect updates about every other week again:)

THANKS TO

The Wild Woman, musicalbballgal, Lucifer's Garden, yingnyang, drac0ismydarling-, ObliviousTrace, Ce'Lyra, Arctic Demon, Draco's Cutie Aaliyah, Tiarwen, dizzydragon, cedar1, drac0ismydarling-, SingingInMySleep, Nikelodean, Sunny June 46, DizzyDawn007, Zekintha, Laicamiel, RidiculousnessMakesTheWorldGoRound, Stargirl1066lkl, bips, Star-Angel23, girlsavestheday, zippythewonderelf, ky-lee333, melia, Vashka, glassmedusa, Dreaming One, Artemis, ali-lou, Lin, Ariana Malfoy- Lestrange, drow goddess, Snowe, Silverbunnie, tahwekilelohcin, nigellus, jods-luvs-draco, and Still Can't Find What Keeps Me Here

**FOR 200+ REVIEWS!**

I am _so_ grateful to you guys you'd hardly believe it… I'm including a sneak preview at the end of the author's notes to let my reviewers know how much I love you all. :) Thank you so, so much! I'm totally getting the warm fuzzies. :)

(And thanks to all the people who went and checked out my story **.mourning.,** too! You're the best. ;) )

A last, great big THANK YOU to my marvelous betas, Zekintha, ILoveMyDraco, dizzydragon, and Arctic Demon! You guys mean a million galleons to me, and your comments help _so_ much… :) You're so great for putting up with me and my stubbornness all the time!

…**on this chapter's timeline**

Yes, Haven is currently set in the 7th year, 1997. We're about to see a vision of Venice in 1995. And I'm trying to keep the story-time as close to real-life time as is possible. E.g., it's currently the beginning of November in Haven-verse, too. Bear with me if a few of the months magically disappear, okay?

…**on Haven going cliché**

Oh come _on_, peoples, give me some credit. Am I going to feed you the typical Draco-Hermione-potions-project stuff? No. Am I going to feed you the typical Astronomy-Tower-Draco-Hermione-meet-and-fall-in-love stuff? No! Am I going to surprise you? Of course!

Seriously, guys. You haven't seen _anything_ yet. ;)

…**on Draco/Harry slash**

Er, no. I've been told before that I ought to try it. I have. For all of… five minutes. No homophobia or anything, but I just don't see Harry as a slashy character. However, I'm a huge fan of Draco/Harry friendship fics. Because it's just so _logical_, you know?

…By the way, I wasn't kidding about it being logical. I ship DMHG. What were you expecting? XD

…**on the possible side-ship change**

Nope. Decided against it. Unless a freakishly large number of people beg me to make this Ginny/Blaise or Harry/Pansy (something along those lines), the current side-ships are staying.

…**on the PREVIEW of what's to come**

Scroll down. Or just skip the italicized stuff, if you don't want to feel curious.

-

-

_In November/December, Grimmauld Place will be attacked from the inside. Who has betrayed the school? (Not what you were expecting, or who I've been hinting at.)_

_Rowena Ravenclaw has left a magical book of priceless value; it will aid in the search for Horcruxes. But it is not her most prized possession by far…._

_Salazar Slytherin had a twin. His name was Sirius, and his existence was largely unknown. His part in the creation of Hogwarts proves vital in the year to come._

_The Black family has an old and dangerous secret that has cost countless lives… Draco Malfoy will stumble upon it soon._

_Who is R.A.B.? Hermione finds out._

_Don't forget Snape. Or Kreacher…._

-

-

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**Optional Review Question**: What do you think of the teasers I've listed above? It's so much fun to hear your theories, you know… Who knows, I might even change my current plans and use your idea. ;)

Don't forget to **_review_**! Remember, one sentence vs. no sentence… It's pretty clear which one is better:)

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Fic Rec:** A Matter of Great Importance**, by **Lucifer's Garden**. A little bit of humor, a little bit of angst, a little bit of pervasive sweetness that is not at all overbearing… This combines to make one of the most enjoyable Draco-Hermione oneshots I've found.


	6. TBA Chapter 6

Chapter Disclaimer: Much of the italicized text in this chapter is a direct/slightly modified citation from Chapter 27 of _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_; all credit to JKR.

Note: Haven is no longer on "real time." Chapter 9 picks up where Chapter 8 left off - around November/December of 1997.

HAVEN

**-**

Chapter 9: The Tower

Slowly, shaking, Draco reached out a pale hand through the window, the silver ring on his right hand catching the blood-red rays of a setting sun. He closed his eyes and breathed in, and smelled the sea.

"Narcissa. I leave now," came the achingly familiar voice from below. Draco looked down the window, and saw a cluster of three figures gathered close by the wall of the building he was now looking out of. His breath caught in his throat.

"So soon, Lucius?" the woman sighed wistfully. "But it would have been so nice for the three of us to have had… some _time_ together –"

The tall man looked away. "It can't wait."

She sighed and paused. "Draco, your father wants a word with you," she called to the boy at last. The boy was standing a little apart, near the edge of the water and staring out at the rapidly falling sun. The three waited at the edge of the water city; it felt like an island, adrift in isolation from the world.

The boy turned around, and the Draco in the tower was startled to see the mass of emotion swirling in those grey eyes.

As the boy approached the tall man, the woman began to walk away, stopping as she passed to rest a hand lovingly on her son's shoulder. He turned quickly from her.

"Draco," began the man, when the boy was facing him. He stopped for a second, and stared down at the son who so reminded him of his own self at that age.

"You know," he started more gently than he had expected himself to, "that I might -"

"Of course," the boy bit back, not meeting his father's gaze.

The man's face hardened. "You shall address me in a more respectful manner."

A long second, then, "Yes, father," said the boy, eyes flickering up for a mere moment, voice subdued. The setting sun left a harsh, breathtaking sheen over his pale blonde hair, his light, depthless skin. The boy glowed a rosy copper, now, Draco noted from above, surprised and a little struck by his own cold beauty in that sunset from the past. Warm tones in the light did nothing for the cool, distant colors that had followed him that distant afternoon. As he looked on this picture from his memory, Draco felt that this blond boy he saw was unsettlingly untouchable, strangely removed from the world around him.

Lucius' face softened slightly as he turned away, facing his wife's silhouette at the water. "When I go," he said quietly, "you will know your duties."

As he watched his younger self reply to his father, Draco felt something in him tear.

"You know your duties," the blond boy whispered to himself high at the window, eyes straining to make out the expression on his father's face as the man walked away from the sunset, never looking back. "You know your duties. You must hold to your duties."

The seventh-year noted for the first time that Lucius' words were not questions or even instructions – they were delivered as a statement of fact, of truth.

_Draco Malfoy has no choice_.

Down below him, the figures stood alone. The tall man strode briskly back towards the heart of the city, the woman remained at the railing lining the water's edge, and the boy stood beneath the old window, a pale, cold statue untouched by the world that hummed around him.

_I bear no guilt._

Draco felt something in him wrench as he watched from the tower, his father disappearing into the shadows of the buildings that grew into the heart of the city. The blond man walked tall, back straight, his air commanding even from afar.

_Lucius Malfoy will never walk tall again_.  
Draco cursed Azkaban, and even remembered to curse Scarhead too.

Suddenly, the young boy standing at the tower's base looked up towards the window above him. His eyes stared straight through Draco, unseeing, and the blond shuddered in the tower.

The setting sun had washed his younger self's face into a strange, warm glow; against the rose-gold of his skin those grey eyes looked piercingly blue. And that was unpleasant: that silvery shade of blue reminded Draco of one person only.

_No, Draco. It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now._

Abruptly the scene before him seemed to slide into fast-forward. Burnt clouds chased each other across a rapidly darkening sky in a matter of seconds. A moon rose – a half-moon, and Draco felt something inside him pound painfully; he'd lost sight of his memory of Venice some moments ago. Run, he told himself, leave this strange attic now, but he stayed rooted to the spot.

Another second, and the murky darkness that had settled thinned out. It revealed a distant sky, the faint cold pinpricks of starlight glittering like so many sputtering candles and so many prying eyes. Close before him, a mass of shadow resolved itself into a tall tower.

A burst of white that Draco had hoped was a cloud grew into a sickly shade of green. He saw at the top of the tower two achingly familiar figures. He tried to close eyes.

_I can help you, Draco._

_No, you can't. Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice._

_He cannot kill you if you are already dead. Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine...  
Your attempts have been feeble… so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it. _

_It has been in it! I've been working on it all year, and tonight… I'm the one with the wand - you're at my mercy…_

_No, Draco. It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.  
Come over to the right side, Draco… you are not a killer…  
I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe…  
Draco, Draco, you are not a killer._

Draco, Draco, you are not a killer - killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe… my mercy, not yours, I wonder if your heart has been really in it,

I can help you, Draco -

No, you can't.

Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me.

I've got no choice.

Draco Malfoy has no choice.

_You will kill Albus Dumbledore.  
Yes, my lord. I will be honored to._

_Draco, Draco, you are not a killer…_

_You will kill Harry Potter.  
My lord, I will be honored to._

I am not a killer...  
I've got no choice. _Draco Malfoy has no choice._

"No," came a deathly whisper. "No, no, no…"  
The blond boy wrenched himself away from the window and fell against the wall with a muffled groan. He covered his ears, his eyes squeezed shut; bent, he sagged against the cold stone.

_Yes, my lord.  
Yes. I will be honored to._

Draco Malfoy has no choice.  
_Draco, you are not a killer…._

He slid down the wall, pulled by the weight of the path before him, powerless to resist. He would not give in to tears, he told himself, no and no and never again, he would stifle his embarrassing whimpers and his terrible cries with his fists until his knuckles bled, he _would not make a sound_, he promised himself over and over again as he huddled, shaking, the night and the words and old man's face and the young boy's face and the snake lord's face playing in his head over and over and over and over again.

_Draco, you…_

-

Many minutes later, a winded Hermione Granger finally reached the attic room, in pursuit of a horrifying, despairing scream.

-

-

**AN**

**Infinite thanks to everyone who reviewed!** I'm so sorry that this chapter is so late (and so _short_), but I was deferred from my early-application college and had to plow through many more applications in the last few weeks... :( You guys are wonderful for hanging in here.

This chapter was a long time coming because it was a monster for a while (9+ pages), but I figured you'd rather have something than nothing, so I split it up into two pieces, this chapter and the next. Sorry about the cliffy. The next update will be up very soon - it's already mostly written, remember. :)

If the tower-sequence was confusing, that's because I couldn't figure out how to make it less so. I mean, _you_ think about it. One can only use "his past self" so many times before it gets pathetic... And yes, I will _try _to cut down on the hair-color identification method, but it's hard. XD Oh - and there's no particular reason for Venice. It's just a place that he associated with a brand of troubled peace that he wanted to feel again...

Happy New Year, everyone!

**Fic Rec:** _Secrets_, by Arctic Demon. Amazingly well-written, a real joy to read. Linked from my C2, "Fine Lines."

**Optional Review Question:** So after that sneak preview in the last chapter, I got a _few_ interesting reactions... Tell me, who do you think Sirius Slytherin is? His relation to Salazar? And what does this bit of Founder History have to do with the matters at hand?


	7. TBA Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from JKR is obviously not mine.

HAVEN

**-**

Chapter 10: Over the Edge

-

In the common room several floors below, a fire crackled merrily as if to applaud the Weasley for his contribution of several wooden chess pieces to the bright blaze. Around him, black and white chessmen bearing the Black crest had fallen untidily, the board overturned in a fit of anger.

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered savagely to himself, kicking viciously at the scattered chessmen. "Bloody, bloody…"

"That time of the month again?" sniped a voice from the far end of the room.

Ron spun around so quickly his neck hurt. "Who's there?" he called out warily, unconsciously adopting a rather violent stance.

"Weasley, I understand your weakness, but _some_ of us like to work in relative peace…"

A large armchair that had been facing away was turned towards him, and Ron caught a flash of golden curls. Pansy Parkinson gave him long stare, then tucked her slippered feet into the side of the seat cushion and turned back to the roll of parchment before her.

Ron blinked for a second, surprised, then quickly recovered himself.

"Well, tough luck, _Parkinson_, because you're in the parlor - the _Common_ Room and you don't own it – "

" – any more than you do. Why don't you go steal a chicken now, like a good little weasel?" Pansy sniffed delicately and began to write determinedly on her scroll.

She had gotten through two sentences when she felt a gust stir her hair, and looked up to find a furious Ron Weasley towering over her chair, breathing far too hard for comfort. Worriedly, she watched his hands clench and unclench, the knuckles a mix of white and bright flushed pink.

"What, Weasley – going to hit a girl now?" she mocked, hoping that her mounting apprehension didn't show.

He didn't say anything for a moment but his glare grew, and Pansy felt something in herself quail. She began to hope fervently for someone else to enter the room.

"It's not like your _Malfoy_ would hesitate to do that," he spat at her finally, shaking with anger. Clench. Unclench.

Her blue eyes widened and then narrowed. "You know _nothing_ about Draco Malfoy," she hissed back at him, her own anger rising over the wariness.

"Oh, and you think you do?" Clench.

Pansy flew from the armchair. "Out!" she shrieked, pointing furiously at the door to his dormitory. "I mean it – _out!_"

"I'm not your _house-elf, _Parkinson. There's as big a chance of me leaving as there is of _you_ beating me in wizards' chess," sneered Ron, uncharacteristically rude, his eyes squinting up in fury and ears flushing to a shocking shade of pink.

Pansy gave him a last nasty glare and walked out around him, doing her best not to show her surprise at how disconcertingly close they'd gotten in their shouting. "You'd be surprised, Weasley," she replied evenly over her shoulder, tone painfully patronizing, "at what you don't know about wizard's chess."

Ron gaped as she swept past him, settling down in a seat opposite the one he'd abandoned at the chess board. She drew out her wand and waved it at the pieces scattered over the floor, drawing her mouth into a thin line as she watched them settle onto the board.

"You – what – what are you _doing?_" A pointing finger was jabbed towards her face.

Pansy fixed the sputtering redhead with an expression of contempt. "_When_ I win, Weasley, you take back what you said about Draco, and you leave me to my peace."

Ron made a heroic effort to pull himself together. "You're not going to win, Parkinson," he gritted out. "And you're missing the white queen anyway."

"Yes. You threw it in the fire." Pansy smirked slightly. "_Symbolic_, yes? I wonder why?" She noted that Weasel's fists had balled again at her implication. She wisely refrained from pushing that line of thought, instead pulling out her wand and producing her own chess piece. It was delicately wrought silver, a tall, skeletal horse crowned by a thin circlet, the head thrust imperiously into the air. "Do you yield to the white, as usual, or must I go second to prove myself?"

Ron ignored her question. Instead, he stared at the board for a second, and then snorted loudly. "Prissy Parkinson has a _thestral_ queen? What, have you seen more _darkness perilous_ than we can imagine under that curly blonde façade of yours?" His face was a sneer of mocking disbelief as he continued to lash out. "Got some nasty little 'inner demons,' have you?" he goaded, "who'd have thought it, _Parkinso - _"

Pansy put back her wand, noting with satisfaction that her silencing charm had worked perfectly even without the spoken word. "Since you were otherwise occupied, I'll take the first move," she sniffed. "Though I believe it was mine anyway." She avoided the Weasley's eyes as she ordered the white pawn forward.

Ron fell back onto his seat, shaking in fury for a long moment before he gave her a last glare and tapped a black knight, directing it silently with his wand. Just you watch, Parkinson, he fumed, you disgusting Slytherin chit – you'll learn something yet; even _Hermione_ has something left to learn...

-

Hermione stopped dead as she looked into the room. One window was ajar, revealing what could only be a midnight sky over a too-familiar castle. Oh gods, she thought, as she recognized the tower in the background, noticed the green smoke marring the sky. The Gryffindor prefect took an inadvertent step forward towards the blond boy crumpled in a quiet heap at the corner of the room.

As she came closer, she realized that he was crying, gasping, mumbling to himself through his tears. He could not have known she was there.

Her mind racing, Hermione took in her surroundings. The room was very old, thrumming with a peculiar kind of magic. The windows were pitch-dark, though outside London was only hinting at sunset; the glass rippled strangely, as if flowing in constant motion; a cold breeze blew steadily through the room from the open window in the middle.

There was an illusion charm here, she realized, and walked slowly to the window. An illusion charm, probably combined with Erised's famous Algorithm of Desire, although the magical matrix itself suggested more pensieve than anything... It was like Moody's chest in reverse, she thought, rationalizing furiously: the outside was infinite and changeable, but the inside was the part that stayed the same. Carefully leaning over the boy, she closed the glass panes, noting that they were very old and indeed looked different on the side facing outwards. His mumbling stopped. His shaking didn't.

Nervously Hermione bit her lip, pausing to consider her next move.

She bent down next to him. "Malfoy?" she whispered. "…Malfoy? Draco?"

The blond head stirred and lifted. Hermione shuddered at the terror and abject wretchedness that she read in his unfocused gaze.

"Draco Malfoy has no choice," he croaked, staring _through_ her with haunted eyes, and Hermione shuddered again. Then he hissed suddenly, a shrill, harsh sound that made her skin crawl. "I will be honored to," he whispered, and his expression was wild, frightened; Hermione wondered what it was that she'd missed. He was far, far away from her, off in the distance as he battled himself. She felt a cold tingle spread over her skin as she realized what had just happened.

"Oh lord," she murmured to herself, "Merlin, no – not now." If Malfoy lost his mind, who knew what he would do? Even if he recovered, he could still relapse at any moment and kill them all in their sleep, or betray their position, or _lose them the war_.

Hermione blinked and shook her head, then grabbed the blond by his shoulders. "Malfoy, Draco – can you hear me? You _can't_ do this now," she whispered, commanding, to those flat grey eyes. "You can't. You've got to pull together, for – oh I don't know – for your _family_, Draco! For your mother, at least! For all the students, for the professors, for, oh, um…" she fumbled for something, anything, that might get through to him. "For Pansy! Right, no. For – for Blaise, Slughorn… _Harry_, Malfo -Draco. For Harry, for Dumbledore!"

At that he straightened up. Hermione jerked back her hands.

"I've got to kill him," he whispered before she even finished, slightly manic. "I've got to. He made me. He'll kill us all if I don't."

A wave of anguish swept over the girl who crouched near him. So it was true, thought Hermione – he really did regret that night on the tower. She'd even stumbled into him in Myrtle's bathroom once during sixth year, and she supposed later that it had something to do with his terrible task. But she had never been sure of his true feelings on the matter. Now she understood, she thought. He was hateful, and cowardly, and filled with a burning, pathetic, miserable ambition for _something_. But he did not want to kill. Hermione felt some part of her settle and gladden even as she felt her fear grow. Malfoy had a _conscience_.

She would later condemn herself for being so sure of the explanation - for never even considering that perhaps, Malfoy was speaking in the present tense on purpose - responding not to Dumbledore's name, but to Harry's.

"I've got to kill him. _He_ knows about us, he'll kill us all if I don't," Malfoy rasped again, eyes wide, desperate, and slightly bloodshot under a fine screen of his hair as he clutched at her sleeve.

Hermione blinked. For a moment, it sounded as though Draco was saying that… that Voldemort knew about the Grimmauld Place School?

A sudden beeping sound jerked her from her thoughts, and she drew out her wand hurriedly. "We should go," she murmured, examining the red sparks jumping out of the end. "I charmed it to alert me whenever dinner is served, since the time varies by day," she explained quickly to not alarm the strange boy next to her, her mind automatically dismissing the strange-sounding words she'd heard from Malfoy. Her imagination was just running away with itself again.

"I can't. I've got to kill him," Malfoy whispered.

Hermione furrowed her brows, troubled. "Malfoy – Draco. You have to stop this," she pleaded. "It's all over now, don't you understand? Dumbledore… he's gone. You were _pardoned_, remember?" She looked doubtfully at his now-vacant eyes even as she felt her own desperation increase. If he truly was losing his mind… for all she knew, he was as good as a Mungo's case. And if so, then he was a terrible threat to everybody at McGonagall's makeshift school.

"Draco… do you think that perhaps you might want to, you know – I mean," she stopped. What _did_ she mean? What could tell him to do?

"I mean… if you go on like this you'll put us all in danger," she finished lamely. "You'll – "

He cut her off as if he'd never heard her, his eyes growing wild, the dullness replaced by a mad, angry glint. "I've got to kill him. I killed, and now I've got to kill again. I have to. There is _no way out_," he ground out between clenched teeth, so terrifyingly close that she could feel his rasping breath, and suddenly he rose up in one fluid motion as Hermione tumbled backwards to avoid his knees.

She hastily scrambled up, fumbling for her wand. "Draco – " Hermione took another step backward and found, to her terror, that she was backed against the wall.

He reached forward and grabbed her shoulders. "_Don't you understand_?" he shouted, shaking her. "I have _no fucking way out_!"

Hermione squealed slightly as his fingernails dug painfully into her skin. "Dr - Draco - "

"I HAVE _NO FUCKING WAY OUT_, GRANGER! I'VE GOT TO KILL HIM OR WE _ALL DIE ANYWAY_! I'VE GOT TO KILL HA--" He slumped suddenly to the ground with a sickening thud.

Shaking violently, Hermione very, very slowly pocketed her wand again, thanking every god she knew of that Harry had made her learn the silent stupefication spell.

But as she stared at the boy - because that was all he was, really, a poor deluded coward of a boy - sprawled unnaturally at her feet, she shivered at the suddenness of it. One moment, he was shouting, screaming, shaking her - and now he looked frighteningly dead.

He wasn't, she knew. He was breathing. He would be fine when he woke up, though he would probably have a raging headache and might be as crazy as he was before. But in trauma, it's always a little detail that eats away at the mind, and for Hermione it was the suddenness of it. It seemed almost unfair, the spell, using it on one of their own, on a classmate, a fellow prefect... She just couldn't get past that _suddenness_ of using it - the red flash, the abrupt stop to the sound - what had he been about to say? - the quick drop, the cruel mimicry of death -  
How _tainted_ she felt.

-

Hermione stood outside the portrait that led to the parlor - the "Common Room" - and gently lowered the unconscious boy to the ground. Outwardly she was still and steady, but she felt as though her bones were trembling with the task that lay before her.

She was not to make friends with Draco Malfoy, or to advise Draco Malfoy, or even convert Draco Malfoy. She was to repair him. And she had only the space of a few short minutes before dinner was over and the empty corridor was frequented by students and teachers again.

Quietly she took in a few deep breaths, stiffening her back as she reached hesitantly for her wand. She willed the dark wood to cease the shaking, and slowly, slowly lowered it until the tip hovered at his temple.

"Enervate," she whispered, praying to gods she didn't believe in that he would wake and be all right again.

Gray eyes flew open.

They stared at each other for a long, frozen moment.

"Why am I on the ground, Granger?" he asked at last in the slow, mocking drawl he had picked up since his appearance at Grimmauld Place. He raised an eyebrow at her intake of breath.

Her mind raced. What to tell him, what to say? She was already taking too long and she had _no time to think_...  
"I - you - don't you - the tow -" She twisted her hands anxiously, the blood pooling in her cheeks under his cold, judging glare.

"...I brought you down here," she mumbled at last, lamely, unable to look away.

He stared in skepticism for a second longer before his face suddenly froze, as if he had suddenly remembered what she had so futilely been trying to explain. Hermione drew in another shaking breath, recognizing the wild light in his eyes, bracing for his next move.  
But he was silent and immobile. Hermione was sure that this frigid stasis could kill.

"Draco - " she paused and knelt hesitantly a little ways away from the boy still lying on the floor, reaching out a tentative hand as if to touch his shoulder. He turned his head slightly and she drew back in an instant. His gaze was cool and judging again, she noted with a twinge of relief.

"Granger." He sat up with an effort and, looking elsewhere, cast around for the words he meant to say. She had not immediately run to McGonagall to remove him from Grimmauld Place, for that alone he owed her an explanation for what had happened. But he could not apologize, all the same.  
"Potter... said the room showed you whatever you wanted to see again," he said slowly, forcing out the words with difficulty. "I... lost control over it."

Eyes riveted to him, Hermione did not move or a make a sound. And then:  
"Have a lemon drop, dear boy," came a too-familiar voice.

Draco whipped around, standing in one sudden, fluid motion. He found himself face-to-face with a smiling life-size portrait of the old man.

"There should be a bowl of them to my left," the old Headmaster said, reaching for his glasses and peering through them towards the pedestal there. "Really, I insist."

Hermione vaguely remembered raising both her hands to cover her mouth as she looked on agape. The portrait had been asleep since they arrived and had not once woken up. It only swung open and closed by the painted Fawkes' watchful vigilance.

The blond boy stared, wordless and shaken.

"Go on, Hermione," the old man said, gesturing her in.

"...Why - _no_," the Gryffindor sputtered. "I can't- _Professor_, he's - "

"I would like to speak to Draco alone," the portrait murmured kindly, smiling gently at the girl. Opening her mouth to protest, Hermione found herself walking through the now-open portrait hole regardless of her apprehension. With one last, worried glance, she left the blond boy transfixed before the portrait of the man he had not exactly killed.

-

-

**AN**

Wow. That was long... seven whopping pages. Be happy, peoples :)  
**Thank you for 300+ reviews! **You guys (you _reviewers_, that is) are the BEST!

**...on side characters  
**Don't worry, Dumbledore isn't going to dominate the story. He is very, very _peripheral_. Since JKR has so graciously thrust our characters into the world without Dumbledore's shelter, I'm def. not going to be the one to bring him back to life!

I realize that Slughorn and Blaise haven't made an appearance in a while. And the Harry/Ginny subplot has been all but buried. And Parvati and Seamus are basically nonexistent. And that the Ravenclaws are as faceless as ever... Argh. Someday, I will go back and fix this temporary blob in the story, but there's_ too much stuff_ and I can't fit all of it in right now... augh! Don't worry. I'll pick up the threads in the next few chapters. It's hard to get the fine line between too much jumping around and too little of the other characters.

**...on Draco's memory**  
Draco doesn't _choose_ to relive the tower scene. He wanted to see something vaguely calming, although it turned out to be rather bittersweet... The memory goes out of his control, however, and reverts to what is buzzing in his mental periphery the whole time. The attic sometimes seems to have a mind of its own - although mostly it only shifts around when the "viewer" is exceptionally distracted or preoccupied by a certain event, as in Draco's case.

**Fic Rec**:  
_Iron and Wine_, by lepetitarsenic. Linked off of faves. ABSOLUTELY FREAKING BEAUTIFUL. It's the most perfect semi-angst oneshot I have ever, ever read... It never fails to reduce me to... I don't know. Incoherence. I've read it more times than I have any other Dramione, and it's worth it every time...

**Optional Review Question**:  
What do you think has put Ron in his terrible mood? Hint: think of the missing chess piece(s)... And why _does_ Pansy have a thestral Queen, anyways?

**REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!** Tell me how this is: I'm on the favs list of 130+ people, the alerts list of 100, and yet the last chapter barely scraped 20 reviews... ? Yes, I _know_ it was short, but was it really that bad? ike. :(  
Do you like this chapter? Then please _review_ it! I mean, four-day weekend, really now! You guys have no idea how much it means to us poor slaving authors to find a review in our inboxes... It makes all of it worthwhile. :) Don't feel obligated to do a big long review (that's you, dizzy ;) ), even though I do adore those - sometimes, the one-liners are the ones that make me smile!  
As always, concrit is appreciated. :)


	8. TBA Chapter 8

Argh! Placeholder. Sorry, I didn't realize that deleting my chapters was going to mess up the old reviews. Sit tight until the next update in a week, please!

Thanks for your patience. Check out the tumblr if you're bored, I promise it's got good (and entirely too nerdy) stuff.

V

And by the way, I'm not going to put up any more placeholders after this, so read on at your own risk; all the old chapters are jumbled following at this point and I can't be bothered to disentangle them here. Sorry! I'll put the full original story up at the tumblr if there's a demand for it, promise.


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